Starving tenor pummels the canyons of a water-dry county
treading south from storm to storm on the
tender black soles of his shoes
racing hard to miss the queen of the night
by ninety six measures
Minus the crown, the magic and Papageno
she will sit for him on the lawns of the mission
a poker deck full of faces she calls
Lucia, Carmen, Violetta, Rosina
while the clouds play wuthering heights on the
furrowed brows of Los Padres
Were the San Andreas a state-long cello
she would ring out Verdi from the back of
her throatpluck the base of these mountains
and three hundred miles north his fingers would
shake across the strings
First published in Eclectic Literary Forum
(Tonawanda, New York)
Photo by MJV
From the collection Great Showtunes of the American Stage
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