A Pome a Day for a Year

Softly, softly, sound of ending,
the event is gone
and the audience contented,
packing up ourselves,
lifting our horizons
for the long tomorrow.

Alone, he stands,
head tilted and eyes glazed,
words roll down and down
an everflowing sea of knowledge
and he drinks them up.
Linking pronoun to surname
to role to event
intertwined helices of hyper focus,
he bobs gently,
the music cascading like smoke
through chairs and fingertips
as his hands shake with glee.