shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Thomas Piekarski


Mozart's Last Legs

All alone and miserably cold
He writes to his estranged Constanze:
"My dear, my only love, 2999 kisses
Fly from me to you." Later that day
He hoists a flagon at the Silver Serpent
Then slips off his chair, dizzy, declaring
"It's poison, Salieri's doing." The glamour
And applause long gone, replaced now by
Lachrymose fugues and rondos. His skin
Waxy, ankles swollen; they're reflections
Of the morose Requiem he's composing...
Death all but inevitable now, he spits up
And convulses as Sussmayr transcribes
Sanctus and Benedictus between sobs.