Evening with Tokaji and old records

Tonight Tokaji lingers on the tongue while Dvořák spins on the old player; the 1873 Vuillaume leans against my chair like a patient friend. A Sobranie after dinner, smoke curling toward the cracked attic window — conversation becomes an accessory, not a necessity.

Beethoven naps on the stand, Chopin suns himself on the sill, Mahler steals crumbs from my shoe. A wish for a man twice my age who will sit, read Akhmatova in Russian, and simply keep me company without filling the room — that would be perfect.