Starting at school
I walk with guys
to my old college.
I want to talk to my piano teacher.
Or see her.
I go by her studio.
Dark, high walls.
Two parents want their daughter
to study with her.
Scores and books fill the shelves.
I see her.
“What have you been doing?” she asks.
‘I want to create something
combining various elements.’
“Like what?”
‘Mozart, Poulenc, maybe.’
“Poulenc is rather esoteric.”
“Come talk sometime.”
 
“What have you played?”
I leaf through pages.
Notes I didn’t master.
Some I did.
 
I stand.
‘I never noticed
how tall you are.’
 
As I leave,
‘I never knew what church you went to.’
“I came from non-adhering Catholics.”
‘The ones that disagree with the pope?’
“Yes.”
‘Oh that’s intriguing.
I’ve become Orthodox.’
 
She’s getting in a procession.
Faculty, choir.
“You go in the other door.”
This must be the one.
A circle of folding chairs.
Young students and children.
 
It seems like it happened
Long after waking.

Jan 31/Feb 2, 2019

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Robert Frost