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Dr House is Playing the Piano in the Auditorium

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By Betz88

DR. HOUSE IS PLAYING THE PIANO

IN THE AUDITORIUM

 

Betz88

 

A stormy Sunday, a monthly chore,

After lunch I knocked on Cuddy’s door.

“Please, Doctor, come along with me.

There’s something you have got to see!”

She looked at me and slightly frowned,

But followed me without a sound.

 

I could tell she didn’t want to go,

But she had to act “the boss”, you know?

My hand near her shoulder as a guide,

She walked the hallways at my side.

At the door I winked with a knowing grin.

Her face was a question, but we walked in.

 

The room was a cavern, the lights were low,

The piano echoed soft and slow.

Not happy or bright, but a minor key,

A melancholy melody.

We took two seats in the very last row

And listened to the music’s flow.

 

We watched you caress the old keyboard,

Your hands gave a magic lilt to the chord.

I’d heard you play before, for years!

But to hear it again brought a flood of tears.

As Cuddy stared into my eyes,

My sight was blurred with her surprise.

 

Such peace we saw upon your face,

Bereft of pain and blessed with grace.

Your lilting strains suffused the air

As highlights danced on chestnut hair.

 

I held my breath as your soul soared,

Those artist’s fingers on the board.

 

As we watched your hands, she smiled at me.

Delight transformed both her and me.

Some battles won, some battles lost,

We can’t spend lifetimes counting cost.

The disabled man had flown away;

There was no crippled leg that day.

 

As we sat delighted, enthralled, beguiled,

Your head came up and you actually smiled.

And as you smiled, you scanned the room.

You saw us watching from the gloom.

Your head dropped down.  Controlled.  Strong-willed.

The magic bolted.  The music stilled.

 

You stood with effort and grasped the cane,

Your movements once more halting.  Lame.

The illusion was temporary, it seems.

Three hearts transfixed by lovely dreams.

The last thing we heard were your steps on the floor,

The thump of the cane, the slam of the door.

 

I saw you Monday, in your office alone,

Your chin on your chest, a hand on the phone.

Your face pale with pain, stubborn as a mule,

The bad leg propped high on the black leather stool.

The lights were low, the desk lamp only.

Your thoughts but a mystery:

Another lesson in Lonely!

 

* * * *

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