My father once told me about a talking tree,

a tree that spoke only to children, a tree

I never heard speak, but still it must have spoken

to my father, because he was always talking

to someone, but there was never anyone there.

I'd often see Father arguing with that tree;

he'd pace the whole length of the living room,

twitching and sweating through his undershirt,

muttering things I didn't understand

about Mother, or perhaps Rachmaninoff.

The tree must have also told my father what to wear,

because he'd often perform in mismatched socks,

his ears still white with bits of shaving cream,

People said Look at this man—look at this man!

People said my father was a genius:

he'd lean back in the piano bench

and hum something that must have made its way

from another world, then close his eyes and dream.

Soon his head was swaying, his long arms sprouting

magical hands, moving across the keys.