A hint, whispered from stage right.
The metronome ticks its reminder
heart beats, breath sounds and memories
of my your movements;
still the words elude me.
Since you have gone,
Dr. V does not bother to ask about
sexual side effects.
He still insists on the usual lines:
"Do you have trouble concentrating?
I took a hundred years of piano lessons
and cannot remember the damn terms
printed on that metronome.
Forte, no not forte
Crescendo? No, that's volume again.
I need speed
From the back seat
our baby boy asks
"Mommy, why is Mozart so sad?"
And I tell him,
"Maybe he lost something he really loved."
And he says
"I bet he lost his dog"
and all I can say is
"I lost my Latin
and I don't think
it's ever coming back."
But it did.
The moment your unfinished prescription
fell and scattered across the bathroom tiles,
they came to me,
Steam whistles from the kitchen
and I forget the name of that book
you always wanted to read.
I inspected the rivets
in the fuselage,
all was smooth, smooth
and still this friction!
Thirty minutes we circle Dallas/Fort Worth.
Did the captain mutter alive, alive into crosswind currents
while the stewardess gave her light lilt reminder:
if for nothing other than your own safety
please remain in your assigned cabin,
desire only that to which you are accustomed
no lap napkin snap
no twist top family prize.
I promise I will not mix my piss
with that of the upper class
Wing tips tilt
we fall like a feather in an updraft
bound rebound pas de chat
down the runway on padded-toe tires.
I breathe deep the air jet
slow my heartrate like a monk in an MRI tube.
are emptied of unsettled baggage
row by row
we all wait our turn for midnight kisses
from the cockpit.
©2007 by Jennifer VanBuren