The Violin Solo
He has memorized whole pages of Profokiev.
Like a runner on a favorite trail,
sprinting along straightaways,
jogging, relaxed and steady, up hills, around trees,
taking moments to pause for breath or beauty.
He knows the smoothest concrete,
anticipates rocks, fallen logs, dips, ruts, puddles.
And even as the sky reddens outside
with the ominous heat of a storm,
he presses to finish the miles ahead:
his sneakers double-knotted,
hood around his ears against the rain.
Like an Olympic marathon, I remember only
the end: one last notes, high high high,
and wavering slowly into silence.
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