Rothschild's Violin

	Bright blue day, warm enough sun.
I'm in my back yard chaise-longue 
soaking in the rays of early May
and reading Chekhov's short stories.
									     Life is good.
Rothschild's Violin, about Yakov, 
a morose, quarrelsome coffin-maker,
who plays the violin, his only comfort,
sometimes with the Jewish orchestra 

for a pittance.  But now
a cloud floats in, shadow falls
and I feel a little chilly, looking up,
the sun minus its third dimension,

at the useless matte moon
riding across an endless desert. 
I'm actually cold! How far to,
how long till blue?

	One day for no good reason
Yakov curses and takes a swing at Rothschild,
the orchestra's flute player. Rothschild
flees in terror, street dogs biting at him.

	I could get up and get a sweater but.
I return to the story disgruntledly 
a reluctant distraction
in the inscrutable meanwhile.

	Old and sickly, regretting his pointless life,
Yakov happens upon a willow tree
beside a river, the same willow tree
where he and Marfa with their new daughter

-- he'd forgotten it all, even the child! --  
who died in infancy, once picnicked peacefully.
	Where's it going?  What vector commands its journey?
I could go inside.  It's warmer inside.
 	 								     Fuck. 
	Yakov, who will die that very night,
sits on his doorstep playing on the violin,
something, he doesn't know what, a song, tears
flowing down his cheeks.  

Rothschild happens by, listens,
timorously approaches
-- Yakov beckons --
and sits down beside him.

Soon Rothschild is weeping torrents too.
	The surprise of warmth
cups my shoulders like a lover's hands.
I shed my mood, my vindicated body

resumes his place in the sun
									     Nap time?
	Rothschild inherits the violin,
gives up the flute, teaches himself
the bow-strokes and fingerings, in time,

he performs in theaters,
bringing whole audiences to tears
with his reproductions
of Yakov's mournful song.