Walking Each Other Home

Come inside, stranger.
You are Frederick the Great,
King of Prussia, yes?
Interesting.
Although you are remembered for your military acumen,
I am told your real love is music.
You play the flute, yes?
I am also told you are
a great admirer of Johann Sebastian Bach.
His Musical Offering to you continues to amaze and baffle,
all smoke and mirrors, I suppose.
Palindromes and such.
A musical joke, perhaps?
We share the language of music, you and I.
There is a language called nature.
There is a language called art.
There is a language called cooking,
as in “just a smidge please” and
“pass me the ketchup.”
Do you cook, King Frederick?
Yes, I know you speak seventeen languages,
perfume being one of them. But…
Can you cook? An egg, perhaps?

There is a thinness here, King Frederick.
We are lacking a certain level of
subconscious pain. All those unresolved
personal matters hidden in cobwebbed corners
as we circle the drain of life.
Therapy might help, but then again,
perhaps not.
Look straight to the camera, King Frederick,
while I tidy the cobwebs round my soul.

There is a language of the body.
We long to be loved and,
if God is love,
we long for God.
The Portuguese have a word for
this meloncholic longing… saudade…
the longing, burning heart.
The longing for home.
This is the unfinished symphony of our lives.