Metronome

Upon the polished piano frame sits an antique metronome,
its movement so determined: to and fro and to and fro.
The tempo makes an easy beat to keep,
but not for me, no not for me.

The orchestra stays well in time
and breaks my will to mind,
the harmony lands cold upon
my straight unbending spine;
my tone-deaf God please answer me,
oh say is it a sign?

It seems the volley never ends,
nor the trumpets
nor the clarinets.
I tap my foot uncomfortably
but hardly to the beat,
the fanfare sounds triumphantly
for something I can't see.

And once the concert's done,
I sit still in the dark,
the only sound the metronome,
and struggle to keep up.

And when I've finally hit my stride,
and clap my hands in rhythmic pride,
the tempo soon changes
and I find myself again behind.