come to me in the high notes
of an oboe amidst the din of
a cafe turned concert venue
for in your hands & vision
every place can sacredly
contain the tunes that
let tears freely flow
into one’s cup or
your goblet of red wine
deficit concerts, you called them,
gatherings of young but
woebegone musicians starved
of audience & hard cash
but eager to be God’s instruments
even just for an hour
the best deficit concerts were
in ratty-tatty auditoriums that
administrators had neglected
there you would go to the
farthest row to find out if
the music could resonate
& fill the ears of a farmer,
a fisherman, a distracted mother
shushing her child
where you are now
acoustics aren’t a problem
anymore that artificial sound
shells could solve
where you are now
the strum of angels’ harps
rings so purely that
your laughter is
suddenly silenced
& yes! now you have Callas,
Abbado, Hvorostovsky,
Beethoven & company
to welcome you, escort
you to your place by
the throne & say
well done, good sir
for you, dear friend,
this time around the music
will never stop.
