With the playwright, the director, the designer
in place around the piano, the composer plays
the silent clown,
turning to the camera
with hands full of sheet music
and his poker face already painted on,
the quirk of apprehension in his tousled hair,
his glasses round as unworldly surprise.
In rooms of half-smoked cigarettes,
a man with such a deadpan
can meet sprung clocks and head-on trains
with the composure of the indestructible,
can shelve a symphony and sign a letter
with the routine of the unspeakable.
Long after the orchestra has packed up its flexatone,
he can keep his audience guessing,
taking a bow and a pratfall.