The Music Teacher

My clothes are wet from the fast rain.
The shoes soaked through. I can feel

the chill in my bones. I can't find
the keys to the door, the light is burned

out, the dog is inside barking, barking.
I see my neighbor, the school teacher,

look out her window. I catch just
a glimpse of her. She quickly turns off

her porch light to make it even darker.
The other day she borrowed a cup

of olive oil from me, an exact cup,
and today a lightbulb, but now she goes

to her piano to play before she sleeps.
Sometimes she'll play for hours. It's sad

music, church music, music that would
encourage one to leap from a bridge.

There is no singing, no joy in the striking
of keys, but a resounding sting of notes

raining through our shared wall.
She once thought that we would fall in

love, but like a new season, eased away
from that notion. She isn't angry,

but accepting of our distance. Or so
I thought. She knows that I can't get

into my house, that it's raining and it's
dark, with no lights. I listen to the piano

play on and on as the rain keeps coming
down and the dog keeps howling.