The Concert

I am not a wordsmith,
But will smith you one for free—
Or a turn of phrase,
If that be your word of choice.

Come and sit next to me.

The concert is about to begin.
The curtains have parted;
An epidemic of coughing has started;
The lights in the hall have dimmed.

A lorgnette falls in an upper balcony,
A program slips beneath the seat in front.

Stop snoring, you—

She’s awake now—
And coughing, to be sure.

Better now than before.

Here comes the artist!
Tardy, as is their wont;
But beware the artist
Who is not tardy:
He is but a dilettante.

Coattails sailing on a wave of applause
Emerge from the stage end
And stop at the piano.

A bow—
Then with a flourish he sits down,
And his hands fall upon the keyboard.

The first chords fall on your ears
Like whiplashes.
My dear, my dear,
Pay attention to his wrists:
His left hand marks the rhythm of the polonaise
In the click of the man’s heels;
The right trills
Like the lady’s dress whirling in the wind
And reels.

Those trills in double thirds—
My, oh my!
How does he play them so?
Scales that sound like pearls
Falling from the end of a string
Scattering on the floor.
How does he play them so?

How does he play them so?

The last note rings out,
Stark and terrible,
Like a dead man’s leer.
The audience of a single breath,
Then held,
Erupts in a collective cheer.

The pianist bows at the helm of the stage,
Ever calm, ever modest,
Belying his artistic rage—
Then turning,
Disappears from the rear.

The coattails sail off the stage
At the other stage end
On another wave of applause—
Louder than before.

Let us leave,
My dear,
Let us leave,
Lest we be crowded in at the door.

The concert hall was like Persepolis,
I observed,
Proscenium arch hanging overhead
Like a vanishing angel’s kiss—
And the silent watchmen in the walls
When Alexander the Great made them fall.

Perhaps someday it will be I
Before whose coattails you shall sit in awe;
But don’t count it,
My dear,
Don’t count on it:

We violinists aren’t paid for shit.