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
She's Crafty! 