The piano melts,
each key a color in exile.
Magenta hums bass,
lime green coughs melody.

He plays rectangles of thunder,
the chair applauds in orange.
Notes spill like broken rainbows
across a parquet of maybe.

Hypothesis: harmony is a rumor.
Counter-hypothesis: rhythm forgives all.

His beard conducts the chaos—
each stroke a tempo for lost umbrellas.
Yellow leans in, listening.

Behind him, walls dissolve
into vertical applause,
architecture unbuttoned by sound.

He laughs once—
and the air rearranges itself
into jazz.