For D.B.K
My younger son grew up a country-length
Away, but spent his summers here with us.
One year, caught teaching abroad, we, on strength
Of friendship, asked, ”Would it be too much fuss
For you to pick up Dan, board him a week
While we wended home through Kabul, Delhi,
Tokyo?” Pleasantly, our friends agreed.
When we arrived, those good folks asked if we
Understood how well our Dan had mastered
The keyboard? Bemused, we thought, with brows creased,
At thirteen, he’d manage some halting craft,
Some three chord pops, or maybe Fur Elyse.
We listened, overwhelmed, and almost freaked
As he banged out Beethoven’s Pathetique
(3/10/07)