Chopin, his two great hands multiplying,
then returning, transposes ivory
keys into aural rapture. I’m lying
in bed, disbelieving. I start to cry,
suddenly a child, seeing Jack Carson
in glowing black and white, strolling across
the Prospect’s screen, and me, a starstruck son
swept by his sad gaze, his lyrical voice:
“I’m always chasing rainbows, watching clouds
drifting by…” Now back, I’m praying, grateful
for this historic connection. Out loud
I chant, “Yes, Frederic, some motley fool
stole your creation. Oh, but let it rest.
After all, maestro, he stole from the best.”
Roger Armbrust
September 14, 2016
