I hold many pianos. It is said they are heavy; that to be a piano-mover is the worst job. I wouldn’t know. I know that a piano played heavily takes long to tune. That the piano’s wood comes from rain that has traveled inside the tree. Rosewood, spruce, ebony, mahogany. I am glad that elephants are no longer killed to make keys, and that plastic makes better ones. I know that people are mad at plastic, but in this case they should not be.

 

Someone told me a story of the blind poet, Homer, how his toga recorded his eating habits. A piano tuner must be spotless. His shirt white; his tie black and clipped. Homer had a simple life, his lyre tunable in the length of a few bird trills. His poetry, too. I know that the principle for tuning poems is the same as that for pianos: inharmonicity. Tune each note in relation to others. Doing so requires both gentle and strong touch. A sour note hurts the neck tendons; a muddy note hurts the stomach.

 

Someone asked me once, “What is it like to live in pitch black?” “I wouldn’t know,” I said. “Ask a formerly sighted person.”

 

When I am finished I wipe the keys with lint-free cloth, removing the whorls.