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Perfect noble fingers
tapered, manicured
impeccably clean
long for a cold glass.
Topaz bullets begin
in Zelda's lovely eyes,
lodge in the worn carpet
of conversations.
Zelda knows I see
all faces as skulls,
postcards from Bordeau.
Still she reminds me
I've duties to attend.
Art begs compensation.
Destitute players
await dispatch in the foyer.
My fingers on the satin chord,
I absolve their debts,
summon the rumbling blade.
Gods must perform,
give peace to genius,
fame beyond the grave.
The songs of winter leaves
in the mouth of an oboe.
Zelda takes my hand,
draws me down the hall
to rest in her chamber
on golden velvet pillows.
In this warm night
I leave her only once
to fill the last cold glass.
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