Monday, March 10, 2014

Poem: Bistro


Deathless leaves break the
midnight on a rascal wind,
the last day I will see
Patterakis alive.

Mr. P took his box of
notes and rubbed them into
mediocre ears, fallible voices,
teaching us the shape and
flavor of excellent songs

Who woke us with shouts,
settled us with laughter,
tracked us with his arms,
master of the sly grin,
the jackhammer stride.

Today he is halfway missing,
a frame of sticks.
The students of fourteen
years stand in a Greek
bistro and sing the
Hallelujah Chorus, drawing on
rehearsals a third-century gone.

I would like to be a
patron in this restaurant, to
receive this clamor with my
swordfish. Or Beethoven’s
Ninth. The Missa Solemnis.
Carmina Burana with clam sauce.
To see the slow rise of my
wife’s lips.

Mr. P stands at his table,
bathed in a glory of his
own creation. Weak smile,
eyes a mirror of sunset.

If major chords could
cure cancer.

We proceed to the alma mater.

Photo by MJV

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