Opera - A Poem by James Bolner, Sr.

Opera
Saturday afternoons in winter 
 he listened to opera.

Music, mixed with strange and arbitrary languages,
 would filter through the white plastic radio's
 improbable slitted mouth.

"Straight from the Metropolitan
For the 99th year, brought to you 
 by the man who wears the star."

Intermission. The rich voices
 were a continuation of the music--
 several voices, almost British.

The drama affected him like a drug.

He drank scene after strange scene, savoring
 the voices' sudden sweet violence
 male and female, magically mating in air.

He digested fabled palaces, 
 vast windows constantly overlooking still lakes;
 he caressed the crimson velour of curtains 
 pooling at the feet of stately windows
 on veined marble floors.

He stood in the wings, 
 brushing his juvenile face 
 against the curtain's musky fabric.

But best of all he loved the gliding 
 high, alone,
 arms wings, heart propelling
 his young body moving
 a shark, 
 between the dusk of the great curved hall
 and the real life of the lighted stage.