"After his death, he was further disappointed" ~Amazon reviewer
I led a life that laughed for joy and trembled
Often for dread. In that I was as ordinary as any.
Mozart had a pet starling he bought for ten bucks
And kept for three years that could whistle the opening
Bars of one of his piano concertos. When the starling
Died, Mozart buried him in the garden and composed
A poem for epitaph. When Mozart died, he was tossed
In a pauper's grave without a stone. I would have rather
Been the captive starling, I think, since no bird cares
How it might be wept or disregarded after death.
A human eulogizes the losses reminding him he's lost.
It was Mozart he was weeping. Yet, the happiness
When he brought the little prisoner home and jotted
The bird's notes replicating his own music, error
Of G-sharp notwithstanding, noting "That was fine!"
That I felt, centuries later, that cosmos-created human
Delight. I recognized that delight. That was fine.
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