Applause from Issue 91/92
For Maria Schneider
The woman who came to the concert
knowing the music by heart is the first
to applaud, instructing the rest of us
as to which of all the notes we’ve heard
was the very last, and the rest of us
fall in behind her, beginning to clap,
pretending we knew where it ended, too,
but were being polite by waiting a few
seconds longer, letting the beauty soak in,
and now we’re ashamed to be the first
to stop, the first to turn to his overcoat,
crushed into the back of the seat. And now,
dear God, a man in the front row has leapt
to his feet and with a frenzy of clapping
much like a butterfly caught in a web
is shaming us into the Standing Ovation,
and then from the back comes a “Bravo!”
and then from one side and then another:
“Bravo! Bravo!” all of us now up and clapping
like crazy, clapping in mass hysteria,
hollering “Bravo!” and “Huzzah!” and other
goofy words we seldom find a use for,
wondering if we will ever get to go home,
the musicians beginning to wonder, too,
when to walk off, and whether they’ll
have to come trooping back for an encore,
glancing around for direction while bowing
and bowing and bowing and bowing,
and now the conductor is stepping aside
with a swish of his tails and is pointing
at this one or that, calling for more,
feeling wonderfully good about himself
while all of us, on throbbing legs, would like
nothing more in this life than to discreetly
pluck our underwear out of our bottoms
and go home. But now, at last, it is ending
and the clapping is dying, one clap at a time,
the way a pan of popcorn quits popping,
and people are turning away, draping
their scarves around their necks, balancing
their programs on their upturned seats,
helping each other with their hats and coats
while the programs slide down and away
through the cracks at the backs of the seats,
never again to be pressed to our hearts.
