Wunderkind

Originally published in The Raintown Review, Vol. 8, Issue 2

At his first lesson, the teacher nearly wept
and clutched the child as if he were a winning
lottery ticket. From that day on, he kept
playing; everyone agreed it was the beginning
of a great career. After concerts, he would rise
to greet the hoards of people waiting in line
to touch his hands, marvel at their tiny size.
His parents said they knew it was a sign
when they played Bach or Mozart, he’d kick
inside. Flashbulbs popped; the boy smiled,
posed for photos, even when he was sick
of hearing strangers say they’d driven for miles.
On their programs, he always wrote the same:
God bless you for listening and then his name.

When adolescence came, he practiced less,
found other uses for his nimble fingers.
His arpeggios became labored; bass clefs
mocked him with smirks. Often he’d linger
after school to avoid going home where
his mother waited, sheet music in her hands.
Exasperated, one day she spat How dare
you waste your gift. She could not understand
his need to be normal, someone’s prom date,
someone’s friend. After college, he took a job
behind a desk, moved to a town in another state.
Does he miss recital halls or the adoring mob?
Only when colleagues stop by his cube to ask
Hey! Where’d you learn to type like that?