by Tim Suermondt

Gray and blue and beautiful, the night
of perfect possibilities is here.
The man wipes his shoes
for some last minute spit and polish.
He can see a pair of sailors
dancing wildly on the white tables
outside the PAN tavern.
He can sense that any moment
Theresa will appear in her red dress
capable of setting the village on fire,
that is if all the men are lucky.
He gets into his shoes, tugs
at his socks and feels his fingertips
burn. Tonight, Aphrodite is on his side.

by Tim Suermondt

The charming couple will split
over bad sex and incompatible philosophy —

the long tracking shots and extreme close–ups
will exhaust them and a generation.

A few difficult books will be packed —
the light turned off in the small apartment

with the red curtains and burgundy roses.
The couple will tender a farewell kiss

by the square but will jolt off in slow motion
in separate directions — the final camera shot

over the city’s rooftops, lingering nostalgically
until the credits scroll from darkness into history.

by Philip Dacey

Knife, banana, bowl — props for the theater
our father staged each day as he gave voice
to slice after slice: “I am the Emperor,
none mightier than I,” till that one’s place
at blade’s edge was usurped by the next.    In vain
the deposed ruler protested — “No!” — as he fell.
Over and over (with slight voice–changes) this scene
repeated till the knife was empty, the bowl full.

We three half–identified with all those sure
they had the right to that high perch in the air
and half–laughed at the same so foolishly blind
as to be surprised by the predictable end.
Given that rich food morning after morning,
we children ate heartily and grew up strong.

by Philip Dacey

If it’s to be
a concerto for violin,
let the orchestra score
be transcribed for piano

so that we hear two voices
in dialogue with each other
rather than one voice
contending with dozens of voices.

Two is all one needs
to say everything.
Ask the yin and the yang.
Ask the day and the night.

Let the orchestra’s notes
shrink into the clarity
of black and white,
the ivories’ home for hands.

Let the orchestra fill its arena,
its super–sized bowl, with super sound,
music as a sporting event —
was more ever less? —

while elsewhere the intimacy
of violin and piano fits
into a small, private room —
was less ever more?

We listen at the door.