In this dusty black and white photo

I found in a wooden crate on the floor

at Cosme’s antique shop in Montevideo,

Felisberto’s head is tilted as he looks

off to the side with a smile, two broad

hands resting on the piano keyboard.

He is playing again tonight at the silent-

screen theater, I recall, his sweet pipe

suspended from mouth. Smoke floats

from his eyes when the crowd cheers

a ripe zapallo outside window, to music

vibrating on sprinkles of sugar crystals

next to his shoes on the wooden floor,

spilled in good faith. Crumble mighty

balconies, luscious parlour lift, plants

overcoming their pots by girls who ask

him his name. Fingers may touch notes

belonging to anyone: stories live forever.