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After Hours

A potato-eyed urchin in fierce pajamas
climbs out of the root cellar
festering with the anticipation of an evening with Bach.
We test her finger speed.
Her repertoire includes an excellent rendition
of Home on the Range
which has everyone’s feet tapping
until one of her potato eyes catches sight
of the dumb waiter in the food pantry.
The houselights clot.
The competition begins.
A hush overtakes those shortlisted
for rosining their bows after hours.
I start snapping away like crazy
forgetting that I had forgotten to turn off
the coffee maker in the heat of the morning’s moment.