Sophie's Music Salon
a poem by Susan H Robbins

April would arrive,
as would the piano Sophie rented
with the $20 she had saved
and placed with stealth hands
in her black and white beaded bag,
small enough
to hide in the center drawer
of her leather jewelry box
with silver patina. I remember.
I would trace the gilded edges
with all five fingers of my left hand
when Sophie took to her garden.

My mother’s spring salon lived well
on the keys of that piano.
The invitation always read:
Welcome to our home
for an evening of spirited
music and vivid conversation.
Bring your own chair.
Leave your shoes at our door.