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A Small Poem in Which Socrates, Mozart, Matisse, Chekhov, and Einstein are All Squeezed In 

Poor old Socrates had so few geniuses in history

to keep him company. He never had Mozart's

piano music to listen to. He never had Matisse's

colorful observations to find pleasure gazing at.

He never had Chekhov's letters to read, one

in which he mentions enjoying a bowl of rich

sorrel soup in a train station. None of this was

available to him to help take his mind off matters.

We know this is not true of Einstein. We know

that he loved Mozart. But god only knows what

precious thoughts went through that brain of his

while listening. Perhaps, one evening, he thought

about the lovely young woman he had seen while

walking across campus lost in thought,

flakes of snow coming to rest in his hair

like the tiniest of birds, chirpless and blind.


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