It’s the kind of thing
you might not notice
when the music plays
and hands at the piano
release Beethoven from the page,
one note after another
in the slow movement
of Pathétique.
I’m thinking
about the very first time
I heard it on the radio, how
Karl Haas adopted it
as his motto theme on NPR.
And everywhere it makes
me stop and listen
to something new
and something heard before.
But now
it’s not a sonata anymore;
it’s turned concerto
with bleeping monitors,
quick ventilator strokes,
and distant conversations
about trivialities
as the ICU attending gazes left
and I, the neurologist, to the right,
past the awkward incongruity
that hovers over the bed and
stalks students and residents in the corners.
And nurses chart the vital signs
or fix the lines
or move about with
squeaky shoes on the shiny floor
while the tape the parents made
for their brain dead baby
plays it over and over and over again
like Beethoven must have done
when he first heard it in his head,
first felt it … in his heart