Hush
By Gene Aronowitz
A clarinet repeats the glissando and first few measures of Rhapsody in Blue.
An usher, in black jacket with purple lapels, offers programs.
Neophytes scan synopses, aspiring aficionados study credits, devotees examine lists of patrons. Programs flap as fans or tap incompatible cadences.
Preoccupations fill the hall: long
commute home; chocolate brownies
still sitting heavy; rancor
at home, at work, and behind;
limited leg room; a blister
from new heels, just slipped off;
time available to get on line for always crowded bathrooms.
But for me, a slight shiver. Spiritual
adepts, they say, feel calm, connected
My quest
to be like them
usually engenders
lost hope but here,
at the Met, chandeliers
slowly ascend, dim. I close my program, reach
for my wife’s hand. Thirty-eight hundred of us,
wait. The conductor hears
the emptiness, raises his arms,
surrendering.
