Hollywood has ruined 
classical music. 
“Close your eyes,”
disc jockey says
“listen to the strains…”
 
Adagio for Strings.
Particularly bad idea since
I’m barreling down Lowell Connector.
 
For a moment
I close my eyes, anyway.
Brain should stretch melancholic
around own life’s 
blue snapshots.
 
I see instead 80’s actors
playing army men; 
Proteus syndrome side show;
& some winsome Parisienne
who lives by her own rules.
 
I see newsreels of state funerals;
Presidents known by their initials.
 
Barber must have been
a sad guy
in his twenties. 
The year he died
a rough one for me.
I should think of my own 1981;
all I see
is a movie screen.
 
With no more eyeballs
for trade with giants,
nothing new comes
from that well.
 
Bolero plays next.
I quit. 
                        

Mom is grating nutmeg into eggnog; 
sneaking a Marlboro
from pack hidden
on top of fridge.
 
Steinway
baby grand,
feet can’t reach pedals.
Pound thunder with left hand,
out of time with steady 
click-clack
emanating from wind-up
wooden obelisk.
 
“Give it a rest!” Snapped Dad taking bite
of turkey, stuffing and cranberry sauce
on dinner roll, dollop of mayo
 
Dropping impatient fists;
Mallets against ivory and accidentals.
Exhausted forehead 
drops 
to middle C.
                        

Mean old witch.
Rooty breath
bitter in my nostrils,
screams
“You’re going to die!”
 
I will, surely.
Unlike you,
I exist.
 
Wave you away,
back into childhood file of
fading archetypes.
 
You’d float
outside my bedroom.
Squeezed my eyes shut.
Knowing if opened,
your avocado kitchen face,
would fill my window
snickering at my helplessness.
 
Look at you now,
pitiful green witch.
Crow black dress;
enchanted airborne bicycle;
spell bottle of teeth & piss.
Can’t vie with everyday
adulthood scares.
Poor old witch, I almost
feel lousy about it.
 
Fly on comrade witch!
You’ll get me yet one day!