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