(A draft?)

My piano needs to be tuned.
There is no doubt.
The octaves no longer line up precisely.
But even despite that,
Despite its imperfections 
The tone is good vibrating through the deadwood.
Rich like a chocolate cake.

(Some might call these imperfections character, but perhaps that is too generous.)

I fear it can no longer be tuned.
That to try might be the last time.
I have been told some of the pegs are dangerously hard to move.
That the hole or the screw might be stripped
And that turning it might cause it to lose its place forever.

So I let it drift.
I let go of an ideal that never was more than an approximation.
I let go of the rules.

I use what I have on hand not waiting for the perfect conditions.
It is, afterall,a big thing to move.