Telemann at 7:30 on an evening
that night has not yet touched,
nearly summer solstice.
He plays; I listen.
His companion is less than half our age,
ponytail not out-of-place,
the soft brush of mascara,
unnecessary but not out-of-place.
Her fingers fleet, a wisp
of brunette tucked behind her ear.
An angelic face, not contorted by playing,
her lips hardly purse.
They chat about tempi,
take it again from a few measures back.
I was brunette, slender,
never played flute.
The terrier chews her bully stick louder
than I would have hoped,
but quieter than barking,
Then Bach, fast and high.
They alternate first part, discuss staccato 16th notes;
he says the F sharp should be
F natural. She agrees.
I am carried to where the notes,
entwined, climbing then descending mountains,
take me. I accept, am grateful for,
this musician mistress.
A friend, recuperating,
reclining on the couch,
taps his feet, nods his head, eyes closed.
The Kuhlau may be his favorite.
My favorite, in the slowly diminishing light,
is the skyline lights. Each flickers on like a note on our City’s scale.
A duet starts: the just-awakened Empire State Building (red, unabashed)
answers the call of a cool-white Met Life.