CRIME Poem: Six for Gold, by Patrick Trombly

I laugh,
though it is time for mourning.
The sound system has been on
since this morning,
but I cannot trust either of my staff,
at least not the new member,
to remember to play the songs.
I tell him to play Bach’s cello suite.
Not that one – the second one, in D minor.
I tell him to play it at a low decibel level,
to soothe, not disturb the guests.
He does not know anything.
He does not know that the microphones
are in the flowers, and in the lampshades
that dull the yellow lamps on the oak side tables
next to the blue upholstered armchairs
from 1982, and above the drop ceiling in the
overflow room, where the critical conversations are held
(but never in the box – too risky).
The unaccompanied cello elicits a tear,
because I had three friends who shared
my enthusiasm for Yo-Yo Ma,
but we have recently had a kind of falling out,
and I do not know what I will do without
the dentist, the jeweler and the attorney.

Author: poetryfest

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