Vivaldi

Don’t try and tell me
all of the ways
that eagerness fails –

it does yes, perhaps,
in the end. But do we ever have the end?

We have only now, this: mop of hair
on the Red Priest’s pate jouncing back and forth
to the cheerful cadence, raised arm
announcing each arriving beat.

We wait expectant for the bright descent –
for the opening of the next gate, ajar,
daylight betraying the world behind.
We follow the hand that runs from room to room
throwing wide the doors of the house.

Don’t try and explain away
the smile on Vivaldi’s face,
or mine. Let tomorrow worry
about itself.

Won’t eagerness wend its way off some distant cliff
of meaninglessness? Yes, and how the hell should I know.
Too many monolithic syllables in between.

And such delight in the next.
Such vivid delight in the next.