OCTOBER 26: AFTER THE PHILHARMONIC

The music could have been a warning.
Prokofiev's Fifth, its opening grandeur,
its agonies, its playful tapping end.

Sort of like the drive home. I'd arrived
in cool sun, ice clouds moving in,
came out to tin rain, nailheads
all over the windows. Cold, too,
and dark, daylight no longer saved.

So I drove home listening
to the shirring of tires on black streets,
the drum of a million
fingers on the roof,
the fuss of fans, wipers, hot stripes
in the rear window.

The car in the garage, I realized
brush clippings had to be put out
for Monday morning. Still in my
concert clothes, I carried them,
damp knotted branches still dripping
crisp green leaves.

I kept thinking of the concert,
me gazing down through opera glasses,
watching the winds, the closed face
of the pianist; feeling the warmth
of the hall, soft light on blond walls,

the timpanist. The way
he calmly selected his padded sticks,
how he touched the drums lightly,
their grave sound carrying through the
thin curtain of stringed instruments,
how he spread his hands on the smooth
skin of the drums, a quick soft touch,
quieting them.