Chopin In Stuttgart

At night, a draft and indigestion, food,
too much of, Neckar wine, too sweet;
By day, the Schlossplatz, streets, predictable
pedantic pentameter, buildings always
borrowed from some other place it seems, a zoo,
a swabian park, a concert at the Weisse-Saal,
the wrong piano sent (played local one
stiff rather, yet with singing treble). Gossip,
lots of, at the Eberle's, snuff, and pinching
sullen children's cheeks, the Gräfin
showing off her Paris teeth, the Graf
his scansion and ennui (my smile fell in the polonaise
but no one noticed for the forte runs, and pedal
held forever seems a house was burning,
somewhere far a city torn apart, a country,
war — all mine, while I play pearly ditties
waiting for a passport to arrive too late: this
will not take me home, no home no more) and what
a pretty chien, a pretty one indeed