More Schubert

I’ve passed the house of Mrs. Revere
Often enough when her windows were open
To know she’d rather listen to Schubert
Most evenings than watch whatever the networks
Are beaming into her neighbors’ homes.

Now that she’s lived, as I have, far longer
Than twice Schubert’s 31 years,
I wonder if she’d be willing, as I tell myself
I would be, to subtract some of the time still left her
If it could be carried back to his era

And added to his scant sum. My guess
Is she’d gladly donate a year, without any prodding,
While a month might be my best effort.
Not a grand gesture, but still not nothing:
To fall asleep at the end of a balmy June

And wake next morning on the first of August,
Allowing Schubert to develop some themes
He barely had time to sketch. And I hope I’d promise
To give Mrs. Revere a week now and then
To help her recruit more donors to our project.

We’d belong to a band whose members
Would be entitled to see themselves as patrons
As well as clients, benefactors as well
As recipients, joined in a secret fellowship
We’d acknowledge by signs when we passed on the street.

And whenever I wished that Schubert might guess
The role we played in lengthening his career
And dedicate one of his extra pieces to us,
She’d say the last thing she wanted was music
That sounded in any way beholden.

And I might reply by asking why deny him
The pleasure of knowing how much he mattered
To people he’d never meet. A smile from him,
And then he’d turn back to making something timeless
From something destined to pass away.