The movers get it out—a Steinway grand,
half-rolled, half-carried to the street. A crowd,
molecular, implicit, is at hand
already. Music hovers meanwhile, proud
to weave into the day its ideal strand.
A pianist appears, hirsute and browed
like Rubinstein. Who would not understand
this may be Art? He pauses, turns. A loud
commotion follows. Noise? No, it’s a chord
by Beethoven that crashes on our ears.
Attention, everyone! Those who are bored
may leave. The rest are lifted to the spheres
as flights of sound riff on, a rippling stream.
The city is, for now, an angel’s dream.
—Catharine Savage Brosman