Episode

        In old days, when they tried to figure out
	how to write the sweetest melodies, they fell
	on a bed, chewed the pillow.  A moon rankled
	in the crevices of a shutter.  In 1935
	the skirts were long and flared slightly,
	suitably.  Hats shaded part of the face.
	Lipstick was fudgy and encouraging.  There was
	music in the names of the years.  1937
	was welcoming too, though one bit one’s lip
	preparing for the pain that was sure to come.
	 
        “That must be awful.”  I was hoping you could
	imagine it.  Yet I will be articulate
	again and articulate what we knew anyway
	of what the lurching moon had taught us,
	seeking music where there’s something dumb being said.
	 
        And if it comes back to being all alone
	at the starting gate, so be it.  We hadn’t wanted
	this fuss, these extras.  We were calm
	under an appearance of turmoil, and so we remain
	even today, an unwanted inspiration
	to those who come immediately after
	as well as those who came before, lots of them,
	stretching back into times of discussion.
	I told you so, we can handle it, hand on
	the stick shift headed into a billboard
	labeled Tomorrow, the adventures of new music,
	melismas shrouding the past and the passing days.