Nightcoach From Salzburg

by HAROLD WITT
LURCHING in a stagecoach through the countryside
there goes Mozart with disheveled wig;
Don Juan descends through smoking violins;
the Bürger wobbles, oinking like a pig.
Sleeping fingers sausage on silk thighs.
The lady smiles at the aging prodigy,
eyes him with serenades. Constance, he thinks,
humming at home, baroque in blue,
princess imprisoned in a twice told town
fluting with fountains. Eine kleine Nacht-
musik might nightingale her now.
The clumsy carriage rudely over rock
wakes the Bürger who believes he has been robbed,
clutching fat buttons, descends to dream again,
disturbs the birds in Herr Mozart’s mind
to soft throated clarities of song.
When will it end? The stagecoach glides
moonlit Viennaward through lost child woods.
He thinks of Paris pianoing with lights
over his bone mother on whom he broods —
Yes, there is more than this Gemütlichkeit,
the lace cuff lifted precise to string,
something needing voices, choirs in white,
a crucifying cruelty requiring requiem.