The Seattle Symphony wants me back.
The violins are pining for me, the bassoons
haven't played in tune since I left, and the cymbal,
well the cymbal refuses to be polished, much less banged
together with its mate. The conductor is distracted
by his side project with that string quartet
and the french horn isn't about to have anybody's hand
up its bell. The cellos no longer look
like the torsos of women that men want
to wrap their arms around seductively
and all the reeds for the clarinets
have split and splintered. The pads
of the saxophone keys have rotted
and shrunk and the flutes keep rolling their lip
plates away from the lips of the flutists.
The skin of the timpani won't tighten or tune,
all the hammers have fallen off
one by one and are languishing in the belly
of the baby grand. Birds are nesting
in the organ pipes, nobody knows what the hell
happened to the violas. The triangle has come
completely unbent. Soon spiders will be
building webs between music stands
and waiting patiently in the centers,
exhausted and hungry, oblivious to
anything that doesn't struggle in the sticky silk.
.
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