The Intermissions of Movement

Somewhere she sits
Between a symphony and some jingle
Shown and shoved through me
She plays through me
Such tingle

The angles from orchestra seats are said to be
Much better than the box
I am told
Her conductor leads like an ox
Too slow he dangles for our beats
But swiftly fills the foyer with mingle
(Often in the middle of his movement, too)

But I am kept with row and number
First in chair and steadfast through
Unless she takes me to a slumber
And even there, more aware of each other

The usher opens a door for another
Firedrill success story
I will hear
All their notes
All the children of these notes
Together with her inside
And they can rip about their cardboard lives
And smash together somewhere outside

“I heard she was plucked from a war-torn city
and dropped by luck in a pool of pretty.”

“I heard her luck in the city was worn
And now she plucks about pools rather torn.”

“I heard her pretty pluck was torn
and how lucky we are to have dropped the war.”

The mangled chatter of flamingos
The gilded clatter of penguins
Closing in on the ice-bucket’s bottom

The lights flicker
The flock moves quicker
Guzzle, guzzle, trash, trash, guzzle
Powder, powder, zip, zip, powder

An orphaned smoke still packed to sell
Lays twisted in some sandy hell
Surrounded by this desert death
It glows more slim and gasps for breath
Aware of all the ostrich fellows
Whose proper ends all came from bellows
Of men who used things for their purpose
Then snuffed the rest and claimed it worthless
But not this cigarette tonight
Not even bums would have delight
To give it life once more and through
It dies alone and this must do

To a trained ear
The tune is near
The strings have stopped!
Shh….It is here

They are ready to plant their Mozart now
(Again he stands to pull his plow)
But there would be no start with nod from her

Somewhere she sits
Not between, but true

She strikes hard to begin
And again
And again she strikes
And with each note, a century comes down

Between Wolfgang and me
Between her and me

Soon she and I are strolling by
In the streets of Vienna
The talking of affections and affairs
The smell of confections and perfumed hair
Our costumed wear would fit us well
For endless time until
The afternoon so starts to turn to night

We must catch this sight!

Dark falls forward
Light stands back
A crimson blend of blue and black
As blade-cut shadows bleed their shade
She swears a kiss,
Then seems to fade

The streets of Vienna look very different than before
The gutters with strewn sewage
Thrown cries from broken shutters
And no moon to follow
Just a gas lamp and some angry moths
Banging their heads

Something pulls on my coattail
“What is pulling on my coattail?”
A beggar
But I know this face, I have seen it before
“Please sir, if you will, please”
His face, I know his face
“Please sir, if you will, please”

What is this? The Hall? The Hall is empty
I am waking at the Hall. Where is the orchestra?
And her, where is she?
The usher stands above me
“Please sir, if you will, please”

I rise before my frustrations can catch
Before my intentions can match
My fear
And she
No longer here

The failure of another
Firedrill march is upon me

Out of the black Hall
Into the grey foyer
I see out into the white light of a street filled bright

Where she
She is
She is standing there

Something between a smile and a yes
Sits upon her face

Once sworn and felt through me
Now kept, she’s upon me
No dream, but awaiting, for real
For real awaits, for real