after Ravel
Their Corolla concerto warms
the cold city, mink and morose
behind drawn glass. Police shoo
traffic off Blue Hills Avenue.
Rubbernecks can’t help but look
at the body. Perhaps he’s risen,
buoyant in death. What is left
behind sits politely: wearing
a seatbelt, hands folded over
his lap. Here comes The Ghost
in a shroud. An officer waves
a baton like Karajan at the coda:
a morning auspice of levity,
where even percussion floats.
Click here to read Matt Vekakis on the origin of the poem.
Image by Winston Chen on unsplash.com, licensed under CC 2.0.
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