Superbowl Sunday, 1995
Sarah Sarai

There was nothing in your life indicating
you would select from the same 3-tiered,
silver sandwich server as Sir Ge-org Solti,
Hungarian world-class symphonic conductor.
Truth is, Scrabble players who have seen
you spell “hir” “lerk” and—not joking
—“luv” weren’t surprised by the fallout.
You mailed 12 postcards home. “Had tea
with George Solti.” George with an “e.”
That’s the shame. American gaucherie.

Blame it on the California story you heard
in La Creperie when you Bic-ed the cards:
the woman at the next table abandoned
at three by her talk show host dad, her Iranian
husband refusing divorce; her leave-taking
quick and her bill on your saucer. Getting
Sholti, no no, Solti right, challenge enough.

You, Lady Solti and yr. friend bumping
butts on Russian Hill in the back seat
of a Honda. Why didn’t you write that?

You can spell Honda.
You can spell Lady.

Nine at the tea including a dame clanking
her bracelets, like they could fuse
into finer metal. Tell me she ditched
the bracelets before playing violin
with an ensemble which performed standing
“to rela-a-a-a-a-a-a-te-te-te to the audience.”

Sholti’s face reflects every beaming note
of every Haydn symphony and a hint
that as he leans from that woman, so leans
the soundless sun. Sir Georg responds,
“Shouldn’t the music do that?” oblivious
to you in the corner, foolishly spelling his name.

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