b.z. niditch | the flying dutchman


We met
in the mezzanine.
here a jazz guy
with a sad smile
on a foreign body
weighs in
between intermission
to a classical world
new to him,
standing no one up
at this operatic pole
talking to a stranger
opposite me
near the stage
where I played
leitmotif melodies
for opera auditions
on a baby grande
for new singers
during their rehearsals,
trying to scratch out a living
between jazz gigs
when Vera’s harmonic
voice and hand
from a collared suit
to shake me up
at a well appointed
adolescent time,
as we began
our weekly trek
to the Met
in a wonder struck way
with attraction
for storm and drang
drama queen scenes
attuning themselves
with a high strung temper
which echoes
and spits blood
for a doomed kid
Vera, I still hear your
mezzo soprano tones
never leaving me alone
like any other lover
to this day.

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