Bad Ritual

When I was a six-year-old child,

I took piano classes

In a poor mountain village in the South of France.

My mother was a secretary

In a Spa Resort

And my father did odd jobs,

Mainly manual like brushing and weeding.

They gave me two years

Of piano.

Classes were in a small room at the back of the town hall.

And the only other piano student

Was the mayor’s son.

And whenever I threw my small kid’s body

Up the squat stairs

To the piano room,

He would walk down

And not trudge like I

But somehow glide

And when we evened out

And could see eye to neck,

(He was miles higher)

I shook his shoulders

With my mind, and said,

With a slight (small-boned) rage:

‘Crève’[1]

[1] ‘Die’