Old Master Memo
Not how it happens,
old friend, not how it starts:
The choir doesn’t erupt in full throat
off the bat. They fidget and scrape,
murmur and stir, sing scales
and snatches of old tunes;
they’ve been known to bellow stale limericks
or hum a kazoo
before launching into
what they really intend.
It’s an indispensable rite
which gives a foretaste
of precisely nothing.
How could you of the icy
blue caves forget that?
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