MOZART INHOBOKEN

Pat Spilseth writerscircle@mchsi.com



MOZART IN HOBOKEN

What happened to sass and tumultuous tumbles

in and out of love

and adventurous forays with reptilian characters

that lent such disturbance to my existence?



The scrappy spark of my youthful face

has receded and fallen in abandonment of years.

A jowled neck burrows into sagging shoulders

hoisting boned cups to perky awareness.



No longer a girl in bloom

I’m paralyzed with self-doubt

making me prey to wannabe yogis and bona fide geniuses

who temper my depressions with wit and affectionate wisdom.



They’ve been here too

and moved on to another plane or drug-induced planet,

a flight of fancy to other worlds of inspired minds.



Let’s be candid… but, gentle with our candor.

What happened to the tempestuous adolescent

gasping with laughter

at each indiscretion?



Sometimes I soar close to smoky beginnings

where I face all manner of monsters

with composed ferocity and gritty eloquence.



Sober, I cajole myself,

partaking in a few pleasures.



All grown up, I’ve become Mozart in Hoboken.

In my nearsighted, squinty view

It doesn’t pay to see things too clearly.

It’s too bright.