Born on his day
You allowed him influence over your life
That no other was allowed,
Except maybe Jane Austen.
I missed your funeral.
No one let me know you had died
And when I was told perfect strangers were there,
It made me cry even more
That you were gone,
Unable to leash your own outrage
At such an event.
I remember you in your black morning coat
And ruffled shirt,
Long brown cigarettes
And your love for champagne
And chocolate.
In summer you dressed all in white,
Never got soiled.
Inspired, brilliant, loud, droll.
On evenings you would show at our door, late, drunk and lonely,
We stayed up with you
And listened to your recitations and wit.
It was always so cold on Mozart’s birthday;
Your humble home was warmed by adoration.
You glowed then, like a blaze.
I miss you.
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