I Consider Mozart

8.

I consider Mozart
in a cold Vienna.
An 18th century man about town.

When he opened his door what greeted
his eye or ear?
Did he wake up whistling,
and if so would I ever conceive
of those melodies he made?

Sometimes I sit at 1:30 in the morning
waiting for "genius" to strike and
leave behind something that
will not leave a negative
impression
if just once.
Just one legacy that does not include
a drunken utterance or
a crack of the skull.

It is at these times that I consider Mozart.
An 18th century man about town.
Opening the door onto a snow laden street
and lowering his head against a cold Vienna wind.

How selfish I am to compare my ramblings
to fantasies, rondos, and sonata perfections.
Comparing water to fine wine
or foul stench to sea breezes.

Dramatically dubious am I this evening
of how Mozart and I could ever be likened.

Me a 21st century man about nothing,
considering Mozart at 1:30 am.