Where two apples rot in the fridge drawer
an echo, muffled by some Tupperware,
crawls under the swinging door
from the upright in the dining room.
Solemn chords of a death march
descend and ascend
until the learner hits a sour note
and goes back two bars.
The fridge gurgles again.
A door slams on the far side
of the duplex.
He plays it right only on the third try.
The fridge rattles to a halt.