The Window Sill Pianist

I dreamt of weeping amphitheaters
Of brimming coliseums, grace, hope,
Poised melody drifting from my fingertips —
Not just this boy’s corrosive delusions.

But, here I kneel, at the window sill;
Ivory and birch have faded into unfilled
Promises and something my father 
Used to consider a young man’s —

“Ambition.”

Here is a dilapidated artist,
Rotting in the shadow of 
His so-called —

“Talent.”

Here is a window sill pianist.