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Mozart's Day Off
The sky was plain, like a smooth cold sheet
of pearl and rainless cream.
History marked no notches on the crispy sandstone crosses
of a Vienna devoid of people,
with no work, no journeys.
No children playing, or horses pulling.
No smoke from the no chimneys,
that weren't visible over the stopped town clock.
The fortepiano sat in silence,
beside the statue metronome, en garde.
The quill was dead.
Deader than the lack of a charcoal smell from cold tallow candle,
or the still iron ink in the unconsidered well.
There was no Mozart here.
Or emotion.
Or panache.
Nothing was given, or gained.
He had taken the day off,
so nothing remained.
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