Picasso’s Violinist


Picasso’s violinist knits his brow,
Slicing his bow in the smoky cafe,
Each squirm or sharp twist leaving
Residual slips and slashes
Hanging in the muffled lantern light.
The carving wrist flickers, leaving its
Contours to shake in the gleam of the strings
With the glimmer of the stern chin.
The looming lantern shadows dash
Across the cream staff page tricking
The pensive eyes that trace trebles and turns,
Tapering a frown to the curves of the vents.
Sheets of shadow from the hard-
Edged tables shuffle, with the sleeves of the stiff,
Flailing elbows in fugal form.
And pupils dart like leaping notes.
Reflected glasses of absinthe gleam on walls.
Convivial bustle shakes the stage.
The player’s face shines
From the intimate candlelight on the tables.
A deck of cards is shuffled,
Jack, jester, or queen, is flipped,
The clatter obscures the light melody.

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