The Vienna Concert

You've pulled off the highway to have it out at last
in this small lay-by, improbably picturesque,
you both recall, in daylight, but tonight the dark
makes a lit box of the ticking car,
the things that bound you—music, booze—
no longer big enough to exclude
your differences. After a difficult pause
it starts to rain, but the windscreen's
dry. You're listening to applause,
work of many hands in a concert hall,
Vienna, 1991, showering
their praise on two that now fall
silent, their run of luck having found
its exit from felicity, its natural end.