Eyes wide open, grinning ear to ear,
Balanced between the thrill of fear and fear,
He clutches at my skirt to keep me near

And will not let me leave him by himself
In the living room where Peter and the Wolf
Emerges from the speakers on the shelf

He likes Peter’s jaunty swing of strings,
The reedy waddle of the duck, the wings
That flute up in the tree, but still he clings,

(Even though for now it’s just the cat
Picking its sneaky way through sharp and flat);
He isn’t frightened of a clarinet,

And laughs at Grandfather’s bluster and bassoon,
But keeps his ear out for another tune
At the shadowy edge of the wood, and coming soon.

Where is the wolf? He asks me every chance
He gets, and I explain each circumstance;
Though it’s not as if he’s heard it only once—

You’d think he’d know by now. Deep in the wood,
Or under the tree, or sent away for good

To the zoo, I say, and think he’s understood.

And weary of the question and the classic,
I ask him where the wolf is. With grave logic
He answers me, “The wolf is in the music.”

And so it is. Just then, out of the gloom
The cymbals menace, the French horns loom,
And the music is loose. The music’s in the room.