Blanch
Mischa Maisky is plotting my demise,
his Solomonic locks mocking me,
raindrops on his suit coat.
Is that the Sistine Chapel I see?
Or simply a diorama
of pine or balsa, swarmed with holograms?
I fear it may be the real thing,
for he never misses a note:
he always lands where he intends to.
Backed by a suited army;
his mind is a metronome,
his temperament, ruthless precision.
But Jackie du Pré puts her hand on my shoulder
and tells me its easy to escape,
so I push off my headphones
and run out of the room.