The Tuner

He kneels before the upright, ear pressed flat
against the wood that hums before it rings,
and turns the pin by feel, degree by fraction,
the way a blind man learns the weight of things.

They tell him it's the quietest of trades,
no crowd, no stage, no curtain call, no bow.
Just other people's pianos going sharp
in rooms he'll leave before the music starts.

His own ears started dimming three winters back.
The doctor traced a slope across the page.
He didn't stop. He tuned by counting beats,
by watching strings go still against the tine.

Now every C he sets is half remembered,
a note he trusts but cannot quite confirm,
he tightens what he cannot prove is broken,
believing in the pitch he cannot learn.

And when the house goes silent, keys all closed,
he packs his tools and lets his fingers rest
on wood that's warm from something he can't hear,
and calls that warmth the proof he did his best.