The movers get it out—a Steinway grand,
half-rolled, half-carried to the street. A crowd,
molecular, implicit, is at hand
already. Music hovers meanwhile, proud
to weave into the day its ideal strand.
A pianist appears, hirsute and browed
like Rubinstein. Who would not understand
this may be Art? He pauses, turns. A loud
commotion follows. Noise? No, it’s a chord
by Beethoven that crashes on our ears.
Attention, everyone! Those who are bored
may leave. The rest are lifted to the spheres
as flights of sound riff on, a rippling stream.
The city is, for now, an angel’s dream.
—Catharine Savage Brosman
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
Grandmother, What Big Teeth You Have
Many years ago, I wrote a piece for this magazine called “Grim Tales.” At the time, I…
Christie’s Compelling Criminals
In the latest installment of the ongoing interview series with contributing editor Mark Bauerlein, Theodore Dalrymple joins…
Lethe
He thought he saw her in the orchid house / and all the flowers seemed to disappear...
