The Bust

The bust we cuss
Is just old rust,
When we discuss
With deep disgust
Our thoughts robust.

The bust was Chopin
Atop the piano
Staring at us
When we practised scales.

Later in life
I sat on the living room couch
Making my daughters
Play scales
Without missong a beat.

Me half asleep
In summer heat.

Outside a baseball game
Luring me away from the piano
When I was a boy,
Now luring my daughters
Away from their hour of practice.

We went on vacation
To see some relations.
Did those relatives
Have a piano?

My daughters must practice
An hour each day
To prepare for exams.

Conservatory of Music Exams.

End of school
End of June.
End of exams.

They got good grades:
They won awards:
They cussed the bust
And Chopin’s chords.

Summer soon
No need to practice
Until September.
To go into Grade VI in school
And Grade IV in
The Conservatory.

Three daughters.
Three instruments
Piano, flute and violin.
Not to practice serious sin.

Years of growing up with
Bach and Berlioz
Counting one-to-four
That’s what I chose
When I bought the bust
My girls long cussed.

But now I trust
The wanderlust
They got from me
Will lead them back
To dust on the piano
And the bust
Of Chopin.

I cussed
That bust
But now I must
Adjust my tale
To tell my daughters:

Their wails
Are all worthwhile
Because music
Enhances their lives.

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