Tell us so.

Brahms is boring.

Bach is dreary.

Morning drive time

Should be cheery.

Grieg is stale.

Mozart moldy.

Give us this day

Our golden oldie.

Tchaikovsky’s pathetic.

Schubert’s a nerd.

And once is too much

For Beethoven’s Third.

The past is over.

Let’s clean house.

Out with Verdi.

Good-bye Strauss.

Curtains for opera.

Unstring that cello.

Make the music

Soft and mellow.

Whether you’re driving

Or trying to score,

Lean back, relax,

While our ratings soar.

Mile after mile

Commute with a smile.

So bye-bye Beethoven,

And don’t touch that dial!

(From Tony Caruso’s Final Broadcast)

PITY THE BEAUTIFUL

Pity the beautiful,

the dolls, and the dishes,

the babes with big daddies

granting their wishes.

Pity the pretty boys,

the hunks, and Apollos,

the golden lads whom

success always follows.

The hotties, the knock-outs,

the tens out of ten,

the drop-dead gorgeous,

the great leading men.

Pity the faded,

the bloated, the blowsy,

the paunchy Adonis

whose luck’s gone lousy.

Pity the gods,

no longer divine.

Pity the night

the stars lose their shine.

REUNION

This is my past where no one knows me.

These are my friends whom I can’t name—

Here in a field where no one chose me,

The faces older, the voices the same.

Why does this stranger rise to greet me?

What is the joke that makes him smile,

As he calls the children together to meet me

Bringing them forward in single file?

I nod pretending to recognize them,

Not knowing exactly what I should say.

Why does my presence seem to surprise them?

Who is the woman who turns away?

Is this my home or an illusion?

The bread on the table smells achingly real.

Must I at last solve my confusion,

Or is confusion all I can feel?

THE HEART OF THE MATTER

The heart of the matter, the ghost of a chance,

A tremor, a fever, an ache in the chest.

The moth and the candle beginning their dance,

A cool white sheet on which nothing will rest.

Come sit beside me. I’ve waited alone.

What you need to confess I already know.

The scent of your shame is a heavy cologne

That lingers for hours after you go.

The dregs of the bottle, the end of the line,

The laggard, the loser, the last one to know.

The unfinished book, the dead-end sign,

And last summer’s garden buried in snow.

COLD SAN FRANCISCO

I shall meet you again in cold San Francisco

On the hillside street overlooking the bay.

We shall go to the house where we buried the years,

Where the door is locked, and we haven’t a key.

We’ll pause on the steps as the fog burns away,

And the chill waves shimmer in the sun’s dim glow,

And we’ll gaze down the hill at the bustling piers

Where the gulls shout their hymns to being alive,