The billboard on the highyway said it would be
Judgment Day, so I suppose I should have thought twice
about taking the subway, lest the power fail
and humanity begin its terrible unraveling underground.
But not a hitch delayed the departure
or arrival of the J Church, and I rise out of the
Van Ness steps buffeted by the strong bay wind.
Two miles away, a baseball game
is in its first optimistic innings, but here the streets
are almost deserted, the parking lot of the conservatory
a skeleton of its weekday twin.
If this turns out to be my last evening on earth,
I muse, at least there will be music.
And soon, a young man takes the stage, suit-
and-tied 17-year-old, and begins, by heart,
Beethoven’s Sonata in C minor. I wish my father
was sitting next to me – I can already imagine the
glee in his face, the way his own fingers would begin
their pantomime on his lap, remembering. At intermission,
we would reminisce about the duets we played,
and there would be a moment I’d admit regretting stopping altogether,
watching this boy-man coax stories out of the keys, and wonder
if perhaps I took a wrong turn somewhere, or left prematurely,
fearing the discipline or disappointment, whichever came first.
And then I would remember, no, this is exactly where I needed to be,
listening, listening, leaning back into my squeaky seat and simply
paying attention.
The concert continues, unapocalyptic. The building doesn’t fall.
Night slides by like it always does, one hour, then another.
There is still time enough for everything,
and I know this because when the boy-man takes his bow
it’s clear the story hasn’t ended, all that is yet to be written
and played, waiting waiting waiting, on the tip of his fingers,
at the doorway, on the stairs, in the empty parking lot,
on the rustling tracks and on early summer bleachers,
under this dark and possible sky.
