I am Franz Schubert of Dresden. It was not easy.
Quite soon I realized my prowess on the violin
was mediocre, but we had to eat.
The piece I wrote (The Bee, you may remember it)
paid for that winter’s clothing, little else.
The children danced in their new clogs
till the strings snapped on the highest note.
I saw him once in Heidelberg, the other Franz.
He was older than I, seemed younger.
Smaller than I, looked taller.