Bösendorfer

I ran a piano bar for angels

Who wanted a night off.

Halos glaring at them from off the table,

And their wings dipped in heavy gold.

Prayers like smoke from the sin at their lips.

Swearing by Styx, Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey

For it works fine but scares a little.

But are they no more than celestial intermediaries between God and humankind?

The stars are creaking, gilded with myrrh,

That soaks up to their bones.

Walking along the cul-de-sac with feet above the ground,

In realms of gravity, they perform pirouettes and barrel rolls

On melodies of liturgical clavichords.

Jiving in and around the dark corners of the bar, 

I can see the wings still inflayed with gold.

They take a bow around the sidewalk, And darkness descends on me –

The mic is down,

Iliad has been brought to an end 

The curtains have fallen from above,

The clock has struck twelve,

And the gig, the gig is finally done with.

I’m supposed to tune into a lament, 

Searching for a place to harbour my solitude, 

But I’m not used to performing alone or seeing an empty stage.

And so I bid the last farewell to my dearest Bösendorfer, 

To take a night off just how the angels did.