A Very Private Song

Watching my fingers wander cross my piano

Touching these old keys

Opening doors to memories

Of better days when you and I

Sang in harmonies

That only we knew words to,

A very private song

That isn't very long now

On my old piano

I think the words are best forgotten

But the tune just will not die

What my lips don't want to say

My fingers want to play

On my old piano.

The computers are sleeping

Like cows on a summer night

Dreaming of numbers as varied

As blades of grass.

Milk pours out from organs of

Wire and magnetic tape

Each day but

Now they slumber

As I alone move through

The darkness

As the moon on a summer night.

      The Moon did not know who his parents were.  He was born on a stormy night and his mother left him in the darkness of a cloud.  He had a terrible time of it that night, tossed about the turbulent sky; 

      The Wind took pity on the poor little fellow and scolded Lightening and Thunder and all the mischievous Clouds. 

      “Get out this minute!  Let this baby see all his family now.  Let them sing him a bedtime song.  Enough of your racket, we’ve had enough!” 

      “Who do you think you are?” roared Thunder, while Lightening danced a terrible dance nearby.  But a fierce glare from Wind sent Thunder away, grumbling nasty things about busy-bodies and party-poopers. 

      “Hush,” sang Wind to the terrified Moon “Hush-a-bye-baby.  Don’t hide under your blankets, looky here.”  She swept away the Clouds.  The Stars, shy creatures that they are, stepped forward in little groups. 

      “Ooohh”, they whispered, “a little baby”. 

      “Is he yours?”, they asked Wind. 

      “Does he look like mine?  No, but I love him anyway.  Look at that cute little face,” she squeezed one of his dimples.  The Moon started to gurgle and smile, like most happy babies. 

      “We’ll dance for him,” sang the Stars and they began to whirl about the sky in beautiful patterns. 

      The Moon began to fall asleep, cradled in the arms of the Wind.  The Stars sang a gentle lullaby.  They began to tiptoe away, one by one, until the sky was empty and the Moon slumbered alone. 

      Now it was morning and the Sun strode across the heavens.  He was as graceful and silent as a ballet dancer, and twice as strong.  Nonetheless he almost tripped over the Moon, who was lying in his path. 

“I say,” he mumbled, What’s this lying about, eh?” 

A long time ago there was a cat owned by a man who claimed He owned nothing.  But then, we all know, you don't own a cat, they own you.

They travelled together up and down the coast of a small country.  Some said the cat liked fish and there was a lot of fish to be had on their journeys. 

The man was remarkable but the cat was not.  Still, the cat sat at the feet of the man when he spoke to crowds, and though the cat was small and insignificant, he heard every word.  And like all cats, he was very observant. 

He watched the faces of people who gathered around to listen to the man.

Ah, the time machine.  It is a piece of work, is it not?  Just step aboard and back we go.  “Whirr, whirr.  Whirr, whirr.” 

Oh, sorry.  Why am I doing that?  I make those sounds to cover the silence.  The time machine has no mechanically moving parts, as we say in the trade.  Frictionless, time travel is frictionless. 

Where did you say?  Ah, the Beatles.  Sure, why not?  Back to the Sixties.  Through the woods to grandmother’s house we go.  There we go, 1964, we just happen to be going to my grandmother’s house, her living room, or the parlor, as she prefers to call it. 

Ah, see, the tv is on.  There is the Ed Sullivan show.  Outside, the woods that surround my grandmother’s house are deep, silent, and dark.  Inside, we sit around her tv and watch the musical performance. 

“Well, that’s them,” announces my grandmother.  I look at her.  “The ones everybody’s talking about,” she explains. 

My sister is sitting next to me, with her ratty blankie wrapped around her hand, her thumb pressed in her mouth.  My grandfather is sitting in the flickering shadows, floating in his lounger.  I am trying to think, “Everybody’s talking about?” 

On Monday I go to school and at lunch Pigeon-toe and Pizza Face are talking.  They are both shorter than me.  The entire 5th grade is shorter than me. Pigeon-toe’s real name is Caroline, and she is one of the cute girls in the class, with big dark brown eyes and long, dark lashes.  Her nickname would be Pixie, except she is spectacularly pigeoned-toed, which I probably would never have noticed, except that one of the nuns blares out one day while we’re all standing in line, “My God, Caroline, you certainly are pigeon-toed!” 

“Weren’t they fab?” burbles Caroline. 

Pizza-Face nods, “I like Paul.” 

“Oh he’s so cute!” 

Fab?  What does that mean?  I listen to them, and while I do, I eat my Velveeta sandwich.  Velveeta on stale bread is not a pleasant contrast of textures.  I study Pizza-Face.  She is like Caroline’s ugly twin, the same height, the same haircut, but homely.  Pizza-Face looks somewhat like the drummer on the Ed Sullivan Show the other night., I think. 

Then I realize that is what their talking about, The Beatles! 

My grandmother was right.  Everybody’s talking about the Beatles.  I play it back in my mind.  Those four guys with strange haircuts, they were cute?  They look like girls! 

    Once upon a time there was a place called Tired Town.  The people who lived there yawned all day.  They fell asleep at their desks, and at the wheels of their cars, and even right in the middle of talking - [anchor man asleep while anchorwoman looks sideways, aghast].

      One morning one child asked his mother, 

     “Why do we have to get up so early, Mom?” 

     “We all have to get up early,” said the child’s mother. 

     “But even the sun isn’t up yet, Mom!”

     “We get up with the rooster’s call,” smiled his mother. 

     “What rooster?  I don’t see any rooster around here.” 

     And the child’s mother sighed.  “Get up now or we’ll be late.” 

     All across the town people were saying: 

     “Hurry up, we’re going to be late!” 

     “Wake up right now, young lady!” 

     “No time for breakfast today!” 

     “zzzzzz”

The people of Tiredtown were always tired.  They got less and less work done the more they yawned.  The Mayor got worried when his assistant showed him the productivity numbers of Tiredtown.  Productivity was down, napping was up! 

The Mayor tried everything to wake up the people of Tiredtown.  He put a giant alarm clock in the town square.  He also piped in a DJ to talk everyone awake in the morning.  He even tried changing the name of Tiredtown.

    Around election time his popularity was at a new low.  There was no way he was going to get reelected, pointed out his assistant.  Perhaps it was time for a new approach.

“Let’s try this,” said his assistant.  “We’ll wait until the last person in Tiredtown wakes up and that will be the time our workday begins.” 

The Mayor looked doubtful.  “You think that will really work?” 

“Well,” said the assistant.  “It sounds fair doesn’t it?” 

The Mayor looked at his popularity polls and nodded his head.  “Fairness is good,” he said. 

    Tiredtown was a peaceful quiet place the morning the new plan went to work, which just happened to be election day.  All across Tiredtown there was the gentle buzz of contented snoring.  One by one everyone in Tiredtown woke up smiling.  People made their way to the square to see what time the last person woke up.  After they voted, of course. 

    A crowd gathered by the Mayor’s giant alarm clock.  It was almost noon time. 

     “Our day will begin at noon time?,” said one neighbor to another. 

     “Looks that way.  Is everyone here? 

     As the Mayor approached the crowd, some muttering was heard. 

     “I got up at nine o’clock this morning.  I’ve been sitting here for almost three hours.” 

     “Me, I got up at 6, ready to go.” 

    But most people were happy.  They started to clap as the Mayor approached the platform.  

     “Is everyone here?” he asked the crowd. 

     “Yay,” yelled the crowd. 

     “Harold’s not,” shouted a little girl. 

     “Harold?  Who’s Harold?”  Everyone scratched their heads. 

     “Harold’s our neighbor,” said the little girl. 

The Mayor looked at his watch.  Pretty soon it would be one o’clock and the work day had not yet begun.  The Mayor looked at his assistant and the assistant coughed. 

     “Uh, maybe we should take the crowd down to Harold’s place, sir,” whispered the assistant. 

     The little girl led the Mayor and the crowd to Harold’s house on the very edge of Tiredtown. 

     “We have to wait for Harold to wake up,” the little girl reminded the Mayor as he started to knock on Harold’s door. 

    The crowd waited outside Harold’s house.  And waited.  And waited.  The afternoon sun slipped behind the tall trees.  People at the edges of the crowd slipped away and went home. 

     “Call me when you find out,” one neighbor said to another. 

    Finally only the Mayor, his assistant, and the little girl were left. 

     “Mr. Mayor,” said the little girl at last.  “Harold never wakes up before sunset.”

    The assistant turned pale. 

    The Mayor’s face turned red.  “When does he go to work?,” shouted the Mayor.

     “I don’t know,” said the little girl. 

Just then, Harold’s front door opened, and there stood Harold, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 

     “Mr. Mayor?” said Harold. 

     “Young man, do you know what time it is?  What time do you go to work?” 

     “Please come in,” said Harold opening the door wider. 

    Harold explained that he was fired from his last job for falling asleep too many times. 

     “Well, we can’t have this,” said the Mayor “Why , Tiredtown won’t get up until sunset if we have to wait for you to wake up.” 

The little girl started to cry.  “You’re not being fair!” 

     “Yes, but -- “

    Harold interrupted the Mayor.  “Tomorrow, I’ll do better.” 

    Days went by.  The whole town sat at home and waited for Harold to wake up.  Tiredtown’s productivity dropped to zero.  People got bored.  Even worse, they weren’t getting paid.  “Recall the Mayor” signs went up around town because they weren’t working. 

    Harold woke up a little earlier each day, so that at the end of two weeks, he woke up at four in the afternoon.  He apologized to the Mayor. 

     “I’m doing the best I can.” 

    Meanwhile the Mayor wasn’t getting any sleep at all.  He looked in the mirror one morning and saw an unshaven man with big bags under bloodshot eyes look back at him. 

     “Enough is enough!” said the Mayor.

    He shaved, combed his hair, and got dressed carefully.  Then he drove himself to work.  Although it was barely five in the morning, he was surprised to see the streetsweeper out cleaning the streets.  And the lights were on in the Donut Shoppe.  A newspaper delivery truck passed him on the way to Tiredtown Hall. 

     “What’s going on?,” wondered the Mayor.  “Why are all these people working?” 

    When he got to his office, someone was already there, waiting for the Mayor.  It was Harold, wearing neatly pressed pajamas. 

     “I got a job!” he told the Mayor excitedly. 

     “That’s wonderful,” said the Mayor.  “But Harold, you’re not properly dressed.” 

     “Don’t worry,” said Harold.  “Just come downtown sometime later today and you’ll find me hard at work.” 

    The Mayor shook his head.  “Okay, Harold,” he said. 

    The Mayor said goodbye to Harold and then sat down to work.  He wrote out a memo and then he wrote out a speech. 

    When his assistant arrived at work, the Mayor handed him the memo. 

     “I’m fired?” said the assistant. 

     “You’re fired,” said the Mayor.  After the assistant left, the Mayor looked around his office.  He was uncommonly fond of this office and would miss it very much, he thought. 

    Now that his assistant was fired, he had to walk down to the newspaper offices to deliver a copy of his speech in person.  When he got to Main Street, he rubbed his eyes, Tiredtown was humming with activity.  All the shops were open, the busses were running, the traffic lights were blinking, the newspaper man was whistling at his stand. 

    All the stores were open.  The clothes store, the dry cleaners, the bookstore, the mattress store -- 

    There was a small crowd gathered in front of the mattress store.  As the Mayor approached, they parted so the Mayor could look in the window, too. 

    There was a beautiful brass bed with great thick pillows and a great thick quilt and in the middle of the bed someone was sleeping in carefully pressed pajamas. 

     “Harold?” said the Mayor. 

    The Mayor scratched his head, and then he began to laugh.  Everyone in the crowd began to laugh, too.  And behind the thick plate glass window, Harold snored on.