Prayer

A train heads west, full up:

Andrew sits by strangers at a window

table. Further back, I rest and so he

chats, twinkles like the sun to

folk who sparkle back. He turns and yells out

‘Daddy!’ every minute, down the aisle, announces

me, my birthday, name, my age, my job, even though

I’m the one supposed to only know my journey’s name

within the secret wrapper of a western face.

Urchin, on a train, has lit up strangers with song

and smile; calls out to his invisible father sitting there

in a rattling carriage – starting to feel warmer -

like a log’s afterglow, like a dozen flames entwined

around a simple prayer to a father from his firstborn son.

Music

Beethoven bawdily twists, as only he can,

beneath a sparkling chandelier in a

central Bruges concert hall – sweet and clear

when a man and his girl start giggling,

taking photos, yelling like fishwives

intertwined with four-stringed instruments

and I feel strong emotion – ‘Shall I, shan’t I?’ urges – you know;

dare I, well, mention it, ask them to shush? When I do lean over,

say ‘scuse me , would you mind being quiet?’ and the man simply

nods, I turn accusing, burning eyes, ‘Are you sure?’ and he

looks away, a little scared. I sit back, indignant now,

fired by inner anger. ‘What if he thumps me

as we leave?’ I say to myself, completely ruining

Ludwig’s capacity. I know this idea – do you have the anger

or does the anger have you? And the string part seethes higher, more

vibrato than ever. Sitting back, eyes closed, I enter the sound

with hundreds around, transported by melody,

letting it go; letting myself; letting my dissonance go.