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.