When Kirill Gerstein stood up, having played
Rachmaninoff’s concerto number three,
More virtuosity was then displayed;
His encore for left hand filled me with glee.

With his right hand at rest upon his thigh,
His left spun peerless aural fantasies
That seemed impossible, at least well-nigh,
With just five fingers dancing on the keys.

I thought if Felix Blumenfeld could write
What Kirill Gerstein then saw fit to play,
Such strictures creativity ignites,
Inspiring other artists on the way.

And yet, I doubt there will be much demand
For poems like this, typed up with the left hand.