Random Poetry

The Concerto Will Be Televised

A man in black
performs
with a ribbon of sheen
running the length of his matte pants;
the trickling tears of salty sweat dripping
from his chin onto the keys.
Hands wobble on whole notes.

I can’t stand not knowing if he’s
nervous
or bursting inside
with joy and release.
He returns a glance and
the conductor is pained,
the principal second caught
eyes closed, startled —
at missing an entrance.

Mopping his brow between
movements,
a white hanky glares
on lacquered black wood.
The Andante compels me
to weep —
insuppressibly, like an onion.
I pause my breath,
exhale emphatically
willing away fumes and delivering
one grain of salt
into a cut nearly healed.

This man is older and lacks a certain
flamboyance.
Arising from a deep crevasse
another pianist floats icy trills
up towards me, past me
rounded air hangs
and delicately dissipates –
the time signature of youth
exploding.

Fingers race the Finale. Arms jerk
assuredly;
eyebrows raise, schlepping eyes.
Cheeks bubble and flush,
pulses syncopate and
Here it is —
forgotten feeling long lamented —
everyone is triumphant.

October 1999

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1 Comment

  1. Aaron Lesher said,

    July 28, 2009 at 3:26 am

    Beautiful. The delicate ballet of the piano concerto. This poem really captures it.


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