The Musician Plays with Time on His Hands

Sometimes I wake in the morning
having dreamed I was out on the marsh.
I have dreamed I was riding a white horse

through the shallow water,
I have dreamed that the flamingos
flew in clouds of rose,

and the wind blew through me.
Other days, I wake with the residue
of Paris, a walk down Rue de la Comète,

reviewing scores on a bench
in the Jardin du Luxembourg,
or the afternoon concerts

at Bois de Bologne. Sometimes
I miss the city like a lover,
and I miss a woman there.

She played the clarinet,
fingers caressing the sound.
Her ombrachure was perfect.

And on a sultry afternoon in June,
when wind worried the Tuilleries,
and the city was tuning up

for Fête de la musique,
she told me she no longer loved me.
She had never loved me.

All the songs turned to brass,
a cacophony of trumpets out of tune.
But I stayed

at my place in the strings.
These are the things that come back
to haunt me.