Member Poem

The conductor and first flute are married
but he flirts with the second clarinet –
this brings out a better Adagio.

We fumble for scores like lovers for hooks,
in the business of transposition,
key to key, vibration to joy.

A small-town orchestra
doesn’t foresee any glory. Reward enough
to play those bars, the ones where we hold

perfection. Four chords. A caesura, a segue;
diminuendo from the sublime.
Condensation dampens our rags;

we pack our instruments in velvet,
fit them snugly in their impressions,
fasten our cases with sure clicks.

The drummer jams a little then drops his sticks
in a pouch, kills the fluorescent strips.
The night hums in the empty hall.