Poem: Cavaradossi's Memo

Cavaradossi’s Memo

To write a poem now would clearly be a mistake

so I won’t

fermata

a tempo

Now when the Dots of Bott and

windshield wipers

have opened me up

the lobby swirling around me like

so much perpendicular nonsense

so much other people’s stuff

subito piano

And Maria Maddalena stares back at me with blue eyes.

(I will fall in love with her on a balcony

the wind blowing her hair into my face;

I am forced to place it back

against her neck

and hold my hand there

three seconds too long for

inertia)

Morning on Sant’Angelo is deceptively clear

the bells coating Roma in jackets of brass

the stars still in their seats

and these nice military gentlemen

who deliver my notes

for the price of a ring

But they moonlight as a firing squad, you know

and they have their orders

their muskets inscribed with the names of great painters

Raphael, Michelangelo, da Vinci

me

(I am honored but not glad)

I may never finish the opera house

but I offer you this

I know Scarpia is dead and gone, Tosca, but the

sands of Capitola Beach

are no more forgiving than the cobblestones

of Italia

Give me one sure kiss and I will

receive my shots

like long-lost friends

empty myself out to the sky

and listen to your Doppler high C

all the way down from the parapet

First published in Owen Wister Review

(Laramie, Wyoming)

From the collection Great Showtunes of the American Stage

Photo by MJV