Poem: I Give Cell Phone to the Great Composers

I GIVE CELL PHONES TO THE GREAT COMPOSERS
(An embarrassment of ring tones)

Beethoven, though partially deaf, has heard
enough, presses the receiver to his head,
drowning its dinky variation
of Symphony No. 5 in his willful hair.
He cries out, not to me or the others or me,
but to God, to the air, asking Why not
the whole thing? Why play only the motif?
I knew it might be bad but not this bad,
hoped they would be honored or, at least,
amused. Not one of them has shown
any interest in placing a call. Chopin
has said nothing for an hour since hearing
the first four seconds of his Fantasie
Impromptu, turns the phone in his hand
urgently as though he might throw it,
a dying fish, a live stone. Tchaikovsky
appears to be in a trance, the Nutcracker still
tinkling from the device forgotten
in his lap. He speaks in a whisper
to his sister in heaven, Do you hear this,
Little Bird? Do you hear what has happened?
Bach is weeping quietly, as are Schumann
& Vivaldi, their respective concerti
cacophonously overlapping. Liszt,
Mendelssohn, & Schubert politely hand
back their units & leave together.
I would go after them, beg forgiveness
for the whole terrible affair, except
Mozart & Haydn take my arms,
kiss me & smile like harpsichords.
It is a glorious day, they tell me, each key
on the fingerboard makes a delightful
noise. They are going to collaborate.
They ask for a hundred more phones.