Dissonant dread deafens us,
but on Beth’s trip home from work
before the campus slams shut
with the terror of contagion,
a violinist plays at her light rail stop.
“It was gorgeous!”
she almost cries, for joy, not terror.
She tried to record his virtuosity,
for me to hear at home,
but the music’s drowned out
by the light rail’s doors closing
with its warning clang, then
the clatter down the tracks.
“It lifted my spirits,” Beth sighs.
“made me think past the warnings,
the worry for everyone we love:
a glimpse into a better world, music
making the burdens more bearable,”
Beth still hearing the faintest
last notes of celestial melodies.