Impromptu Poem by Doug Lane

Staring at a used
Casio CTK 510
electronic piano
in the Westchester Goodwill
on Sepulveda Boulevard

I find myself wondering
what I might have accomplished
if I hadn't spent
so many hours
struggling to become
the lousy golfer
I am.

I might have
written a cantata
in each of the major
and minor
keys.

I might have
made myself wealthy
writing pop tunes.

I might have become
the life of the party
- -able to sit down
at the piano
and smoothly
tinkle out
impromptu renditions
of Porter, Gershwin, Kern, Sammy Cahn,
Carol King, Johnny Mercer, Bert Bachrach,
Lennon & McCartney, Randy Newman,
you name it.

And, of course,
I'd be singing, too,
like that New Orleans guy
- -Harry Connick- -
or like Tony Bennett,
that cool,
but not quite
that old,
or like Sinatra himself,
except not quite
that dead,
or like
the late, great, Nat King Cole,
who was as brilliant
a pianist
as he was
a singer.

Everyone would gather
round me,
singing along,
admiring and envying me,
the women
wanting to
sleep with me,
the men
wishing they could
perform
like me,
enjoying the hell
outta my playing, my singing.

This would be
the unquestioned highpoint
of the party,
and that Goodwill piano
is only $44.50.

But I don't bite.
I don't live the dream.
I return
to my car
with my tools of ignorance
in the trunk
and drive back
to the range
to practice
my mistakes.