This–
according to the voice on the radio,
the host of a classical music program no less–
this is the birthday of Vivaldi.He would be 325 years old today,
quite bent over, I would imagine,
and not able to see much through his watery eyes.Surely, he would be deaf by now,
the clothes flaking off him,
hair pitiably sparse.But we would throw a party for him anyway,
a surprise party where everyone
would hide behind the furniture to listenfor the tap of his cane on the pavement
and the sound of his dry, persistent cough.