Ludwig von Beethoven, eavesdropping,
peers through the glass window
of our conducting class at Juilliard,
eyes bright, wavy hair askew,
lips moving, ear trumpet in hand.
A beat-up grand piano pretends
orchestra sounds of his Third Symphony.
Sharp eyes under his crevice frown
attend a student’s clueless conducting.
Holding the downbeat up,
his baton flies, flails, and vibrates —
a white, aimless motion
(at best a molecular commotion) —
as the pianist weaves a miracle:
a two-handed-out-of-tune Eroica.
The Maestro frowns as he follows
the student’s jittery baton
conducting his symphony’s
Funeral March. He shakes
his salt-and-pepper mane, shouts,
“Die Klasse ist nichtig!”
words ricocheting off the wall
like the first four notes of his Fifth.
Distracted by moonlight melodies,
and an “Ode to Joy” only he can hear,
along with syncopated hunger pangs,
he strides majestically over scores,
cello, violin cases lining
the brightly-lit hall, his footsteps
falling faultlessly in rhythm.
'