...Imagine

metamorphosis...

time crawled toward

midnight

and the man

compelled to play,

his music

a melancholy wail

whirling,

drifting,

brooding toward Liszt’s

Rhapsodie Hongroise:

each note

a suture to stitch

purple fissures

fading pale.

​

Relentlessly

re-fingering scales,

reconstructing

the melody

in his solitary

struggle

for sobriety.

​

Every evening

I lay pooled

in sound:

frozen by an

inept profusion

of chords,

struck by the passion

drowning between

notes.

​

And when I

listened,

I heard

​

the man

slowly becoming

my father.