It’s early in the Anthropocene, late
In the Cenozoic, as the commuters travel
Incessantly through the tunnel in mechanical
Parade, no one speaking, only the scrape
Of a myriad of soles and the bittersweet
Tones rising from the CD player behind
The “conductor”—is it orchestra-minus-one?—
His shock of white hair in a bowl cut.
Few take notice as he wields his baton.
Amid the lull of dreams, this music—Mahler’s
Das Lied von der Erde?—is a second’s distraction,
If heard at all.
How far will a busker go
To earn a few bucks? (The gleanings in his overturned
Fedora are sparse.) Expressive to his finger-
Tips, he’s either in total control, or total
Denial:
Descending, the baton directs
Glaciers to melt, calando, then rising, guides
The calving of icebergs double the size of Manhattan,
Maestoso ma giocoso.
With his left
Palm upward, he coaxes, poco a poco, now
Let sea-levels rise and the waters acidify
And warm.
Then, flipping his palm, he wiggles knuckles
To command the eating away of coral.
A lightning
Stab of his wand, furioso, summons the downpours,
The Atlantic hurricanes …
He’s lost in a dream
Of mastery as the thunders, crescendo, beat
The finale, allegro con fuoco—I’ve never heard
This piece but somehow know it—
We’re on our way home.
