They nod to a piano out of tune,
a piano awkward and embarrassed,
ashamed to turn its bruised old
ivory face
towards the judging, silent eyes;
turning her back is hurtful,
though someone has tried -
thrown a silk shawl over her
mud-dragged body,
kicked and beer-ringed,
over the gaping, ragged womb.
They are using her again.
Others are sitting in rows,
nodding to a piano out of tune.
When will they listen?
(January,
1987)
