Another Reason Why I’m Not Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

When I was a child
my mother found me
at the piano bench
playing myself.

I was told to stop.
I was told to keep
practicing. My hands
got good.

When I was alone
I took a pencil and
carved my name into
the wooden bench.

And here I am, still
guilty! I am writing each
word with my hands –
my dirty hands!