Image 1 of 2
Image 2 of 2
Text: Poem by John Dickson
My third and final wish is, once again
to see that oldest of ancient movies--
half out of sync, half worn away
of Harley Klint or some actor no one knows
playing someone I somehow feel is me
whistling through New York City springtime
this song that just pops in his head.
Old time cars moving through the streets.
Birds happy. Dogs happy.
He steals an apple. Buys a rose.
Does the tango with a milkman’s horse.
The song sticks in his head, he jots it down,
pecks at it on the piano in his room
then makes the rounds of music publishers --
short ones with baggy jowls,tall ones with turkey skin --
cigarette smoke, derby hats -- the works – all screaming,
“Out! You call that music?” or
“Give up, son. Sell life insurance. Run away to sea.”
Close-up of his shoes all worn and always walking,
his song played in a minor key to show exhaustion.
Then wandering in the magic music store,
where a sweet young girl piano player
dreams at him and plays his song for him,
He singing it to the curl of her hair, to the music of her face.
Cleaning women drop their mops and dance,
the owner of the store starts dancing
people from the street come in and sing.
The piano becomes a full-fledged orchestra.
Motorists on their car roofs dancing,
pedestrians dancing, street cleaners dancing.
Even a kindly old cop tears up all his tickets.
Oh, it’s enough to make your eyes water --
the world as it should be.
Shot of miles of music rolling from the presses,
stacks of dollars piling high.
And there they are, young and in love and suddenly
he, by some strange miracle, dressed in a tuxedo
and this girl, all flouncy white and sequins
and every inch Miss Universe
waving from their open limousine,
moving through ticker-tape parades to Happily Ever After.
End of Show. Oh, what a lovely world this is.
Tomorrow I think I’ll try to write a song.
1986, from Waving at Trains, Thorntree Press. Reprinted with permission
