as a requiem

i ask myself
cubist or classical?
they're two sides of a coin,
either bawdy or comical,
like bits and pieces
of an exploding psyche
which arrive in time
neither early or late,
perhaps to celebrate
or insinuate
or copulate
in a loving yet reproachful adieu.
but arriving in time nonetheless
like a nostalgic currency,
i held the coin
and felt the weight of a loneliness
which could not be spent
or lent
no matter how things went
on the town square
under holiday bunting,
or at the county fair
with wind instruments at my back
and cotton candy in hand.
the six men in a village band,
their little flutes and rustic oboes
and a black clarinet in a flat key,
listening while i hummed Tipperary,
found me in a garden
which my father had once loved.
there everyone saw the coin
and couldn't decide which face
they preferred.
i demurred
and said it appeared to be furred
in chinchilla
so they thought it was my favorite dog
but it was only a ghost;
the one i dream of the most.
i ask myself
cubist or classical?