An Ode to my Keyboard

I remember, several years ago.
The long-flat present under the tree
I can’t have been older than nine or ten

I had unwrapped it, happiness on my face
I had taken it back to my place
Set up on a stand in the corner of my room

From a vantage point there many things could have been seen
My tongue sticking out, eyes crossed, as I tried to learn
Simple tunes of happy birthday and Clair de lune

Eventually, it’d be moved to the top of the wardrobe
As her needs grew.
Her bed taking up more space in our shared bedroom

And her toys, and then
Once she had outgrown the cot, a gate around her bed.
Jutting out like a sore thumb.

My bed changed, grew taller, as well
Space underneath for my own private den
A desk, where I spent most of my time.

Still the keyboard sat atop the wardrobe.
Would’ve been interesting to see what's been seen
I still take it down, from time to time.

Sometimes she demands it of me, sometimes I do it
Of my own volition. What has the keyboard learned?
My own figuring out of tunes I had heard.

Her fingers pulling impressive glissandos
Over and over
Sitting on my lap, my own little sister.

As her needs grew, so did my own.
As she moved from toddler to child, so I moved from child to teen.
But mine were never held in equal esteem

Pushed to the side, like my old, battered keyboard.
Used, if at all, by a five-year-old girl.
The oldest sibling, the biggest sister.

I had to listen, had to learn.
Had to work hard, all on my own.
I wasn’t getting any help, that’s for sure.

I was doing all I could.
But I’m still a kid.
Barely a teen, and yet still-

There’s schoolwork and homework and self-inflicted homework
And revision and exams and GCSE choices.
There’s Caring and there’s no-one caring

There are sleepless nights and restless days.
Days spent alone, my only salvation a friend
On the phone, and music filtering through blue headphones.

There are bags under these eyes, a parent who
Doesn’t have the time, or the want
To bother to care. And yet still

I hold my breath, waiting for someone to notice.
But there is no-one who will, and here I am stuck
In purgatory.

Stuck as the least favorite of three, twice over.
Three kids and two houses and only one me.
The least concern of two sets of parents.

I swear I’ll go mad, eventually.
How long until my will snaps or breaks or I give in
I have no idea, but I don’t think it will be long.

And still, as I am thinking these things
The keyboard sits atop my wardrobe
It was used today, and perhaps I will use it again tomorrow.