My son, the violinist, never played


At the age of nine

he fell in love with Haydn,

and through the autumn of that year

lay sprawled on his bed

smitten by string quartets

rising from an old turntable


Then by a skip in time

or a scratch on his soul

a string broke and the music

behind the closed door

changed to heavy metal,

screams of rage


Though he flinches now when I

remind him of his brief loss of cool

to adagios and concertos,

I still thank Haydn for bringing him

the possibility of joy