Perhaps it was unwise
to begin in the car.
60 mph on a two lane road
is not the time to have
an awakening of senses.
The strings crept up on us,
lurked down the cobblestones as we left town.
It may have been the volume-
with all the windows open
and a storm furrowing above,
the “1812 Overture” touches
more than words.
At first, she smiled at
the plaintive initial quartet,
but with the timpani and
violent jerk of the strings it was as if
a cattle prod had struck her soul.
Eyes wide, eyebrows ascending to heaven,
Breath gone to the blare of brass
Jumping motionless in her seat.
Helen Keller in the garden
may have felt the same,
but the water never crept in her ears
and down to curl about her stomach,
caress her sides as the notes
throbbed to us.
She turned the volume up
and hit the gas, shifting into fifth gear
as Tchaikovsky grew frantic
and we went whipping down the road.
Our marvelous
life flashed before our eyes,
the road disappeared,
(much to the consternation
of other drivers)
the music demanded nothing
but one
long
yell.
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