The Page-Turner

I pinch the corner well before the turn,
lifting a little roof of paper.
Under it the next page waits.
His right shoe works the pedal.

Once he came on Thursdays
with his bicycle helmet dripping
on the practice-room floor.
I put a saucer underneath.
He could never let a chord go.

Now I sit just behind his shoulder,
close enough to smell the wool
of the suit he wears for this.
The bench takes his weight
each time he leans into the bass.

He reaches a passage I remember.
My pencil has survived here:
*Too much pedal.*
I wrote it hard enough
to dent the following leaf.

His shoe stays down.
Each note enters the one before it.
I want to say the word
I used to say: clear.

The paper trembles in my fingers.
He tips his head. I stand,
carry the page across the music,
and sit before the little draught
has settled at his neck.

The bass note is still sounding
under the new chord.