Do you remember that night?
Lucy bought us tickets.
In NYC at Symphony Hall.
To an all men’s chorus –
an all men’s Russian chorus.
She believed us a bit proletariat,
our rural horizons in need of
a serious stretch out into
the wider world.
So...we sat in the dark hall
with a thousand serious minds
listening to the chorus chanting
dark and heavy songs of war,
of Mother Russia, of peasants
and of famine. At least, that is
what it sounded like. It was all
in Russian for heaven’s sake –
what did we know?
But as we thumbed wildly through our programs
looking for a translation, or at least a hint, there
came a long drawn out phrase – a mournful gong
– a pregnant pause -- and then as one, all thousand
serious minds in the hall turned a page to follow along.
Everyone but us.
There in the dark, in the grim depth
of that epic and muscular music
we started to laugh.
Shoulders heaving, we tried to conquer our rising
hysteria, but to no avail. We were overrun, stampeded,
defeated on the field of battle. Finally, as the laughter
rolled wetly down our cheeks, we fled.
Limp helpless utterly exhausted
we sank onto the velvet couches in the lobby.
Embarrassed to our core. Silly happy.
Our horizons as narrow as
when we awoke that day.
Beloved, do you remember?
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