The Accompanist || Dick Allen

I’ve always worried about you—the man or woman  

at the piano bench,  

night after night receiving only such applause  

as the singer allows: a warm hand please,  

for my accompanist.   At concerts,  

as I watch your fingers on the keys,  

and how swiftly, how excellently  

you turn sheet music pages,  

track the singer’s notes, cover the singer’s flaws,  

I worry about whole lifetimes,  

most lifetimes  

lived in the shadows of reflected fame;  

but then the singer’s voice dies  

and there are just your last piano notes,  

not resentful at all,  

carrying us to the end, into those heartfelt cheers  

that spring up in little patches from a thrilled audience  

like sudden wildflowers bobbing in a rain  

of steady clapping. And I’m on my feet, also,  

clapping and cheering for the singer, yes,  

but, I think, partially likewise for you  

half-turned toward us, balanced on your black bench,  

modest, utterly well-rehearsed,  

still playing the part you’ve made yours.

--

and there are just your last piano notes,  

not resentful at all,  

carrying us to the end, into those heartfelt cheers  

that spring up in little patches from a thrilled audience  

like sudden wildflowers bobbing in a rain  

of steady clapping.

How beautiful simplicity is. The things unnoticed have always been, for me, the most precious entities of the world. I don't create anything that's worth the effort of thought, of slight glances, nor steady concern, but I can feel the Accompanist's place in my own, and there are moments when I acknowledge my existence this way, and feel very much alive.