A cello on the bed –
An expecting nude body.
(At the piano, bought for a mere song,
A bow in your hand, you are like the Madonna with her infant,
Among the candles breathing above the key-board,
You thought the neighbours would protest again,
I stood still damned, and still sluggish,
Outside the December buses have been rumbling for an hour,
And the mournful “la” crept in between the two of us
And huddled itself to Rahmaninov photo,
The wardrobe moaned, the walls began to moan –
An infrasonic messa for all redeemed
Like a nosy neighbour the morning intruded trough
the slats of the Venetian blinds,
I had not yet put on my sweater, I think
I was smoking and contemplating about music and things of that kind,
Relaxed, listening and gazing at your legs,
A coffee pot, a clock, two steaming cups,
A musician in a nightgown
Was bidding me farewell.)