by smealek

The beautiful piano keys—
the man could no longer see;
just a bitten apple sitting beside him,
and a couple of smokes befriending
their ashtray, where they died away.
He seemed to read,
but he was blind.
A fanatic for that sort of thing—
for the literary arts, since he was a poet.
He liked to hear her speak,
and liked the sound of that and this.