LaBoheme

A child of the streets at nine, I slipped
through a door left ajar, marked "stage,"
blocked in red and facing an alley I always
cut through on the way to a school I would never attend.
In the darkness I followed what felt like a hall
of diluted shadows and muffled sounds to a
circle of stairs that led down to a crack
in the dimly lit path to a room that blossomed
in rows of red velvet chairs. I sank deep
in a seat that reclined in a way and smelled sweet,
like a department store.

An oboe complained out of tune to
insistent reminders of corrections being made
by a piano played unseen in a pit.
There were cellos competing, repeating each note,
responding like echoes to violas engaged
in a struggle to find missing chords.
Soon people in makeup began a parade,
costumed in clothing even more frayed than mine.
Each of them wailing off key and not
in the same time as the instruments tried
to keep up with them.

An abrasion of sounds piled abuse on my ears
and I strained to listen but all I could hear
was the chaos of ricochets off the cracks where
sidewalks meet walls and doors slam for the night.
Then a shift was arranged in the mood of the stars
and Rudolfo stepped out on the stage with Mimi,
dressed in her jeans and a shawl.
They shared the libretto of Puccini's duet
controlling each piece of the harmony
without a baton or spotlight to guide, they
relied on the genius of performing for one.