The old man shuffles out
Hunched in his coat
Mumbling aloud about
Something he wrote
We crane our necks
To see around
Eyes on the stage
With its muffled sound
A Puccini mass in many parts
Too many movements
Crescendos and starts
The old man needs a break
From the pauses without applause
Reminding him of his wife’s wake
They are too much to take.
Too old for silence
Or for standing still
Hunched in his coat
The old man has his will.
