THE LOVE LOST BETWEEN THEM

Woe be gone in song

of the wandering violinist

as he moves among

the tables, annoyed

as bows the neck

at the haircuts

that bob and shake fists

to his melody

of two Black Forest Lovers

beset by a pack of wolves.

Bristles are the cuts

on the head of this throng,

he bristles himself

and often longs

for a seat

nearest the podium, starting off the evening off right,

on the mark, on time,

a tempo  to  signify the

romance of his moods.

Yet his songs are too sad for

his present crowd,

they like it in chords

that blast and clash the anger of gods they

can't name,

Their rhythm is violent,

not suited

for violins

and the sentiment they exclaim.

The kids want to see Industrial Cities

slip into

boiling Great Lakes

as a backdrop for a riff   on

the E Major scale.

Yet they're all stuck,

they by blizzard and

the need to eat,

and he by hunger and

the need to pay rent

every thirty days,

and together they make

the best of

the love lost between them.

They sit, listen, and gnash their teeth,

while he plays frantic cadenzas,

dreaming of applause and kisses from

the balcony from men in tuxedos

and ladies

in long white gloves,

Together they
 make music t
hat's

jagged

and
     dirty...