Upon the placid keyboard,
I pounded with dismay,
Skeletal,
In black and white,
It answered nothing grey.

No in-between,
No cushion,
To ease my fumbling hands,
No marrow,
Twixt the whittled bones
That jostled as I played.

The ligaments and muscles,
That should have worked the tune,
Were lost,
As empty sacks of skin:
My mistakes,
Wrinkled and old.