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I guess you hadn’t meant
to leave the concert halfway through.
Although it’s the charm of the open-air
to unpedestal orchestras;
unpin fake bowties, demystify,
and scrawl on the score
an unscripted part
for a chorus of mosquitoes.
And although it’s true that grizzling kids
or shrilling phones
can be smuggled out of the park without ado:
noone will shush, or tut at you
if you tread in your haste
on a plate of potato salad
or a sleeping child…
Nevertheless
I can only guess
you’d not have picked a spot so near the stage
if you didn’t trust your mammoth dog –
your hulking wooly St-Bernard-cross
to pick safe passage
out among the thick-set picnics.
It was thoughtful of you to carry him, then
clutched to your chest: a reluctant dancing partner
with all four legs a-drunken-kimbo,
liquid eyes and lolling tongue alike, a-roll
(the dog’s, that is
your eyes were merely bugged
and turning crimson
from strain, perhaps; embarrassment, or dog-smell)
And I swear there was far more vibrant life
in the mirth that followed your eccentric exit,
communal and joyful and unplanned,
than there was vibrant death
in all of Mozart’s requiem.
I do hope you’ll come back next week
to cart your dog across the lawn again.
I think they’re playing the 1812
and Ludwig, bless him, wasn’t much for laughs.
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Autumn, early, after rain
