Fingers are the real stars.
Their fingers slide over black and white.
Their fingers are tickling the smooth ivory
In a way that makes blue birds want to sing
In the morning sun.

His fingers control the show.
His fingers grasp a long white stick,
Waving it through the thin air
To create the rhythm of his masterpiece.

Their fingers crinkle the program.
Their fingers are constantly fidgeting as they hear
The sound of ringing notes,
Swarming through their open ears.
Interested minds swallow the intensity of the show.

My fingers lay still in my lap.
My fingers crave to get home and practice
After watching a spectacular performance.
Fingers are the performers.