Tumbling stumbling pachyderm blues.

There will be
the slow graceful parabola of ivory through air
notes in unexpected combinations
a rolling grey blur the size of a house
wood splintering in a ragged fusillade
shit steaming in fresh pollocks on the ceiling.
Because you tell me
this harmony, this perfection cannot last.
The rot will set in, our music curdle.
Our dancing love? An elephant
falling downstairs with a piano.
Maybe.
But it will be no ordinary elephant, my love
and it will be a Steinway grand
on stairs of polished marble
waist-deep in jungle flowers.
It will be beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,
a cacophony of movement, a riot of sound.
We shall stand amid petals and carnage
kissing the blood from each other
picking out splinters
whispering how good it is to be alive.
Then, laughing, we help the elephant upstairs.
I give you the money for another piano.
© Steve Pottinger

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