bobby hart

playing the perpetual cocktail party
of the starry heavens
bobby hart and his piano rotate
slowly
levitating in thin air
amongst the celestial bodies
the sanctum of space itself
aloof
and alone
a bottle of german vodka
sitting on his piano
eight fingers
and two thumbs
float over a black 1912 steinway
like entranced familiars
overhead
burning comets tumble by
at the speed of light
aldebaran dangles
lonesome
windswept
bright
off in the distance
the aurora borealis
lights flicker and flutter
frolic and fade
he plays a sad little piano piece
"napoleon's army christmas eve,
outside moscow"
glancing up from the keys for a moment
to notice the sun's glorious rays
creeping and peeking around the smooth
rounded edges of the moon
in a baby blue rental tux
smiling faintly
and dangerously
childlike in the cosmic wind
an icy stare sent over the tiny stars
that throw pale light
through each thread of his suit
and light up the stubble on his face
like neon wire
forming a soft glowing halo
around the spinning black piano
and it's spectral master

"so this is death..."
he croons in a gravelly whisper
"a state of animated suspension
somewhere east of the 5th dimension...
and it's hard to buy a pack of cigarettes
when you're lost in space
cold and dead"
the piano's haunting melody
and bobby's raspy voice
drift languidly
over the passing gargantuan moon
if there were anyone to hear his melancholy tune
in this desolate corner of this solar system
surely
they would weep at its gentle beauty
music carries well in the stellar nether regions
nothing to get in its way
unlike down on earth

bobby hart and his piano spin and drift
in slo-mo
sprinkling sweet sad music through the heavens
like a baker lacing arsenic
on sugar cookies