Rhapsody in Blue
Gershwin bends over the Steinway,
huge orchestra behind him. Ira, backstage,
hums along, unaware of the tumor
squeezing his brother’s brain.
He’s got the blues, them there blues,
he thinks when George misses notes,
bowing too low until the clapping dies.
Afterwards, brownstone parties
where he pounds the piano keys until dawn.
‘S wonderful. It’s awfully nice. It’s Paradise.
How crazy, how sad
Gershwin should die at thirty-nine.
At ten, swaying
to Paul Whiteman’s orchestra
on the tinny Victrola my parents left me,
rhapsody and mourning mix.
Let’s call the whole thing off.