In a room apart—
Out of hearing he trusted—
He played Mozart carefully
Leary of smudged notes,
Apprehensive less the filigree be shattered.
But he was overheard.
She intervened,
“We are all students here
Helping each other.
That will never do.
Let Mozart sing.”
She forced him from the bench.
The andante sang for her,
Or so he supposed.
For him singing was wild,
Passioned abandon,
Backdrop to the sensual.
Boheme or Swan Lake.
Who knew that Mozart sang too?
Who knew that his line might fly?
He still had the tattered sonatas,
Yellowed, comforting pages,
Coverless.
Intermittently Mozart reappeared,
In autumn’s orange,
High above the western view
Where balcony beckoned.
The filigree cohered,
Or came apart.
No need for listening now,
Her lesson stayed as
Mozart sang.
