The Little Eighth Grader Could not Dream of Massenet’s Tortured Flow of Music as Well as Did that Prostitute, Thaïs
I started with my love in seventh grade.
My teacher wanted me to learn the drums,
But mother…sax. What put them in the shade
Was silver sound. The rest were cracker crumbs
Or rotten cheese. I chose to play the flute.
At eighth grade graduation I performed.
The teacher chose for me to toot, toot, toot
The “Meditation” from Thaïs. It swarmed
The church with notes like nectar from on high
In music made of silk and honey on
The desert sand of Sin. When martyrs sigh,
They think like this in Christ’s long, perfect dawn.
Today I got to go to Covent Garden for
The tickets. I did not predict that shore.