is in the October issue of PA Poetic Voices. Here is the poem:

Genius

I read in the NY Times

that a nine-year-old girl

played Rachmaninov

on a Guarneri violin

at Carnegie Hall.

I chose not to share it.

By the time he was 14,

my brother, a musical prodigy,

had realized

he’d grow to be infinitely

better than good

and infinitely worse

than magnificent.

A rare violin,

lessons with the finest

musicians, inducements,

and bribes failed

to improve his timbre.

And yet he persevered—

always trying to please

a father and mother

eager for genius.

I worried for him.

Talentless, I enjoyed

the music

and the endless hours

of free time

his lessons ensured.

I was a genius

at frittering the day away.

At 21, he sold

his violin

for a down payment

on an auto dealership

on old Route 322.

I work with him there.

The showroom music

is the best on the planet.

We sell Fords

to people dreaming of Mercedes.