Watching him,
she knew he’d
never come back.
A wave too tall
had washed over him and
swept away the spirit of
a man still sweeping his arms
outward and up, inward and down,
drawing this last time on rote memory,
familiar motion branded on the brain.

Nevertheless, his thin baton, snowy white,
became again the rod of God, coaxing forth from
imperfect mouths of thirty-odd sinner-saints
harmonic arias that rose like last angels
to leave inhospitable humanity behind.
The musician in the man betrayed his
stern focus, dauntless determination,
and he cried, his chest heaving
even as they seemed to sing
goodbye, lullaby, goodnight.