These cold, black keys have no life of their own.
We both know they’re sick of hanging round in the dark.
Come on, they say, Hit me, Right here.
The tips of my fingers lay themselves out and settle in the groves.
It’s as though they’ve never been away
from the idea
and I know this is the place.
The time may not be right but I don’t care.
This is the place
and the ideas
will not wait.