At one point all the notes had flown loose like cellists
on lunch break, scattered to area diners and delis.
But Mickelson gathered them all back into hand
and compressed them into four fiery suites

which debuted at the Philadelphia Philharmonic
in January of that year. A rain of unfavorable reviews
forced Mickelson back to his pencil and thin score paper,
back to his piano, his coffee and unplugged telephone.

He sat raking his open hand through his mop of hair,
scratching his thigh. He only stood up to relieve himself
and to fish a Pepsi out of the cooler. He stared up
out of the sunlight. He tucked his toes under

the rag rug under his desk. Then came the clapping
of the plastic ornamental windgoose in his lawn.