Phillip

She wonders

did she sign his death warrant

when she hired him, the luckiest day

of his life, he believed.

Seven, oh seven, seventy seven.

He was blond, with long fine hair

always in his eyes, he was gorgeous

with a beautiful slow smile, and

so tall he had to do the splits

so they could look eye to eye,

a student from Australia, who could now stay

in America, a brilliant mathematician

and a creative musician who turned

his computer into an orchestra.

With the job he got a green card,

and at night enjoyed the excitement

of New York’s musical scene, hanging

out with the famous and the dangerous.

The work he did for her he did with

such sophistication she could not

always follow his approach

but admired its elegance

and had but one complaint

he was always late, and she fussed

and fussed to get it done, but she could

never stay angry with him

for he did his work with brilliance

and he was gorgeous, his mind as rigorous

as his face was sweet, and she loved him

but was hard on him, once he invited her

to dinner at his apartment, and she told him

get the work done first

she noticed he looked paler than usual

and his finger nails looked blue,

deathly blue, and that was the last time

they spoke for he died very quickly,

from a fever they said

but she knew its cause

and his friend the famous composer

whose music she never liked

she now disliked with a passion.

She did not know it then

but the most creative period

of her career was nearing its end—

she never did learn how women

were supposed to play the game—

but his creativity was beginning to blossom.

If only he returned to Australia!


Peter Goodwin