Well, you all or most of you I'm sure you've
had little puppy dogs and you know how rambunctious they are.
When they're three, four months old.
About a year ago we had a little puppy.
And every morning-- she wasn't big enough
to jump up on the bed yet, but she
was big enough to put her front paws up on the mattress.
So, every morning that we'd wake up and look over and there
would be this dog running on her hind legs
back and forth on the edge of the mattress.
You know what I'm talking about, you can relate to that.
Well this is a combination of doggy poem.
And I think it is jogging poem because I usually
get up fairly early to run.
There's one word in here, name of a disease called sclerosis.
Anybody have that.
Oh you're not willing to admit.
Trees get it to.
Different germ though.
So, predictably this poem is called Piano Player.
Each morning, when I managed to get up early,
like the monks did getting a jump on their salvation
by praying.
Singing anthems for hours.
An assembly of men out of respect for God,
who is holiness.
Only moving their lips then taking that joy within them.
Hand warmers, sensors working all day in the fields.
Still asthmatic, not completely whole, I stumble in my shorts
from window to window.
To be sure the neighbors are still asleep.
Kings in their rich jails.
That the bulbous car out front is still comatose.
Like the silverware on the drain board.
Not having started itself up, become
excited with ideas for foreign travel.
That takes a while, checking everything out.
As difficult as the concerned young doctor curing sclerosis.
Trying not to fall in love with the girl
because he knows her parents trust him.
Actually there's no stopping it.
And by the time I've made my 12 or 13 round here comes the sun.
Daytime ghost having fun throwing off his robes.
His onion eye peeling and peeling off
opalescent rings of fire as it peaks up over the mountains.
And that first light inspired or frightened,
I rush in to see you.
Suffer quiescent, lying there summa
cum laude in the sheets among your blonde hair as on tiptoes.
The little dog runs along, paws stretched up
on the edge of the bed.
A pianist, hair slicked back playing a huge piano.
A picaridin entails trying to out distance the desire.
Speeding back and forth.
Eating a great ear of corn as one
see sometimes in the comic strips.
When eye opens and though panting,
he listens for a moment then begins playing your requests.
The moonlight Sonata.
Something from the sound of music.
A bit rushed perhaps, but as fresh, as beautiful,
as their composer's first heard them before writing them down.