Howard Grady Brown

[December 2010.]

“I have a dream, I do confess. I dream
a string quartet plays Haydn on the moon.”
He laughs and downs his whiskey. “Quit too soon!
We just gave up.” His bitterness would seem
more justified if he cited all
we stand to lose, the advances in
astronomy alone… where to begin?

“My friends, behold the advent of our fall.”

He pours another shot and sniffs the glass
and, smiling, swirls the whiskey ’round and ’round.
We sit in silence, imagining the sound
of soundless strings on airless moon. We pass
the bottle. Rocket science comes to this:
the dream, the math, the music that we miss.