The dim half-decorated lobby and the elevator’s low hum
offer a somber hushed reverence in comparison to 
the dysfunctional decibel level of carny sideshow madness 
that roars by in this midtown stream of taxis and messengers, 
palpable anger daringly captured in honking horns and angry pleas,
a veritable Babel of harsh invective, a ride down the rapids
of a hellscape of near collision and constant rush-hour risk. 

I press the button for 11 and wait for the doors to close. 

She has left the apartment’s front door slightly ajar.
I hear the familiar notes of a later Beethoven sonata
as she rehearses the changes that are now part of my DNA.
I know that sometimes she practices in the altogether,
or only wearing deep red lipstick and a diaphanous shawl. 
Hundreds of years removed from the angry deaf creator,
she adds her precious beauty to the piano’s dulcet tones.
Today, however, is not one of those days. 

Seeing she is in a mood, I steel myself 
against the inevitable oncoming barrage.
She is angry that I am a poor trade journalist,
a poet unable to afford her expensive whims and fancies.
She has no patience for such misplaced poverty.

And so, with her unrealized dreams about to be funneled 
into the nearly grand piano of a cruise ship’s auditorium,
she takes out her frustrations on me,  
romantic ne’er do-well, 
a plaything to be tossed aside
so that she can sate her carnal desires 
while off cruising the seven seas 
and do so without guilt, shame,
or any need of apology. 

I have served my purpose
but now am dismissed like last week’s news. 
She assures me there is no future between us.
I can see her thoughts racing as she considers
reneging just long enough for a farewell bout
in her spacious king-sized bed, but she thinks better
of it when hunger of another sort reminds her why
I am no longer the chosen one.
Her real-estate agent buddy Barry will take her out
to an expensive dining experience and regale her
with catty tales of celebrity friends of friends. 

We have done this dance before, 
and I never enjoy it.
I resolve to have a stronger resolve if she ever
tries begging her way back into my talented
but severely underfunded project of a life.
I shall miss the divine music, 
but Glenn Gould can help me there.  
And yes, I’ll miss the beauty too,
but at what large cost to my self-esteem
in the long run of her unique brand of crazy,
when she so savors the special joys
of truly making me suffer.