The Mozart Conundrum Poem by John W. McEwers

I can hear you, but I can't see you.
I can taste you, but I can't feel you.
Maybe I'm too close, maybe the curves
of you
are too gradual, the mountain of your sexuality
just a rolling hill from this proximity,
and somehow the grandeur of your beauty has eroded
down to gentle
boring
countryside
and now the bedroom games feel like
a trip to Grandma's house
and a cobb salad.
Comfort and calm
comfort and calm.
Wake me up when the strings fade
and the last whistles of sonata
rub their arthritic legs.
When Mozart flips his piano
and does a strip tease
we'll talk.