are walking in Greenwich Village, and I’m
wearing my Sony Walkman; he’s sporting
his powdered wig, recalling when he climbed
a wall to see the empress cavorting
in Vienna’s court. “I was only twelve,”
he chuckles. But I can’t hear him because
the volume from my earphones only shelves
any chance I have. Still, I sense him pause
in his stride. I look up and watch him frown
like a teacher seeing a pupil sleep.
I know my buddy feels I’ve let him down.
I hand him my earphones: “Here, yours to keep.”
He slips them over his wig...Eyes grow wild.
I know he hears Die Schopfung. And he smiles.
Roger Armbrust
June 14, 2002
