It’s a Monday morning in September,
Leipzig, 1735, in the coffeehouse
Of Gottfried Zimmer. With no instrument
Except a quill pen, Bach is working
On his Concerto for Harpsichord in D Minor,
Second movement, the Adagio.
Having not slept well again, he is sipping strong
coffee mit Zuckre und Milch, unaware
That in 275 years it will change the life
Of a banker in America working in a tower
On land that, while Bach sips
His coffee, is a vast, silent forest where
Deer graze not far from a trail
Occasionally used by the aboriginal people
Of this country. In fact, he is not thinking
About the near future at all. It’s eternity
And counterpoint he has in mind as he steps
His measures deliberately down the page.
The morning light slants through
The heavy glass. He can hear the
Slow clatter of horses’ hooves
On cobblestones as they haul apples
From the country to market. In the small shop,
Away from the wretched choir school,
He can rearrange time and space.
Much later, after three hundred wars,
The banker sits on the ninth floor,
With 26 items on his to-do list, a
Whirlwind of electrons firing messages at him,
And struggles with next year’s budget,
Which will pass through two managers
A department head, and two committees
Before being changed completely
And returned to him to start again with
Different assumptions. As an unexpected benefit
Of two centuries of capitalism, he can plug headphones
Into his computer and listen to Bach’s Concerto
Played by a Russian orchestra.
The Adagio begins; the banker pauses. It proceeds
To gently unwrap the items and the e-mails
From their hold on the hemispheres
Of his brain. His breathing slows;
The Adagio lasts for nine minutes,
During which he can almost hear
The stately procession of horses’ hooves
In Leipzig and the scratch of a quill pen
Reaching out in time, note by stunning note.