Читать книгу A Perhaps Line - Gary D. Swaim - Страница 15

Breath smelling of Sen-Sen, sweet—licorice,

weight of a sable, 120-bass Excelsior accordion hanging

about his shoulders, black albatross. He leans to the boy

playing ragged, wheezing D-scales with small, clumsy fingers.

His own, long like unspooled thread, glide over imagined Steinway keys—

Carnegie, Albert Hall. Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 3.

Napoleon Brandy dreams. All his life he dreams.

Shocks of silk and velvet at his wrists, brightly ringed fingers.

A quickness of light. Audiences of other places and times.