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The Concert Lover
by Robert Riche

On my way to the Vivaldi concert,
a short walk into the 18th century
along wet , slimy streets, the garbage uncollected,
a taxi splashes a puddle onto my trousers.
But here I am in the warmth of the hall, basking
in a rosy glow, the comfortable woolly smell of wet clothes
as the musicians tune their instruments,
the audience murmuring in anticipation.
The conductor mounts the podium, lights dim,
the baton goes up, and suddenly I am bowing
to the lady on my right who curtsies as I take her hand.
I am Gerard Philipe and the lady is Michelene Presle,
and we are about to enter into a wild illicit affair
while her husband defends the honor of his country.
No one recognizes me from last week
when I was transported here, having survived
the retreat from Moscow to 57th Street
through the invigoration of Tchaikovsky.
When I stood in a tumbrel rumbling over Paris cobbles
do you think I was fearful of the awful blade? Ha!
From the scaffold I hummed to the strains of La Marseillaise,
faced my detractors with scalding scorn (including the lady
in the seat behind me who asked me to be quiet)..
I lower my eyelids, and I am back with Signor Vivaldi,
his to do with me as he would, the woodwinds
calming a feverish imagination, the plaintive strings
drawing tears from my eyes, and the the horns
whispering a lyrical finish. There is clapping
all around me, and though I would like to take a bow
I have the presence to know the applause is for those
workaday sweating musicians on stage.
I rise and shuffle with the others into the lobby,
out into the wet streets with the garbage bags still there.
In my furnished room I put tea on the hot plate,
and with the melodies of Vivaldi still whirling
in my head I waltz about the room, until exhausted
I collapse onto my lumpy sleeping couch
and bury my head into a pillow
while the teapot screams.

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