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Poetry of Issue #8                                      Page 24

Post Rosenkavalier


The Marschallin - guess what? She kicked the bucket!
See how they like that, those fat cat aristocrats
purring in ermine furs. Octavian - cock, dead
as the proverbial doornail - shudders; too distressed
over the loss of his erstwhile mistress
to caterwaul duets with Sophie, his bride of so many years.
Besides, he’s saddled with debts. Forget past sonorities!
Sopranos scaling solar heights morph as veiled encomiums
at disconsolate rites. Tears add tepid grains
of rice to Sophie’s disingenuous blush - her girth
wide enough to fill the Met with raucous laughter.
And ravages of arthritis make it easy to forget
the virgin fuss that cluttered up the stage
she’s soon about to exit with Octavian -
sullen witness to her age. See youth’s orchestral swoon
glean shards from a cloud-disheveled moon
that nearly hides from sight the stumbling
footman, his livery a little frayed from use.
No high-spirited dive for his mistress’ handkerchief
to bring the curtain down with crowning ceremony,
but his frown suggests: “Why the fuck am I schlepping this?”




Frank De Canio