If I could read music
And play the piano
I’d interrupt you
With no notice
Wherever you are
In some seminar
In Edinburgh
Or sitting alone
In your office.
I’d haul my piano
In medias res
And play
Like Géza Anda,
Like Alfred Brendel,
Like Frédéric Chopin,
Like Claude Debussy,
Like all the alphabet
Of subtle pianists
So impossibly
When we kissed
It would make us both cry.


Be my Harley, my girly, paunchess roadie,
So I can launch my fifty-something boy band:

I need you as midlife midwife, ministering angel,
To birth my crisis. O She, O Isis, come

O Rolling Stone, O Mick-chick, O stone-age Raquel,
George Eliot-brained, late-teen Emanuelle,

Let me embrace you, let me hide my light
Under your bushel, come, O come

Now to my achy-breaky heart, the one
Still unattacked, unmurmuring, forever young.

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