At the symphony I feel young.
White-haired ladies and gents
Advanced enough almost to admire
My brazenly antiquated appellation,
Tap and nod and drum and tap
To the beat of these old familiars.
“I don’t remember this part,”
A wife frowns to her husband,
And I imagine them in 1940
At the premiere of this piece,
Elegantly dressed, young,
Vital, despite the black and white,
Which they’re required to be, when
Imagined, imperfectly, by me.
How are they now so colorless
These people I know I see in color?
Her silvery fine hair, his skin
So thin the blue veins bulge
As if to rise up and through?
They fade into their seats. I think
To blink and find myself alone
In this hollow auditorium. Still
The orchestra gamely plays on.
I listen. They travel. We listen.