Читать книгу A Perhaps Line - Gary D. Swaim - Страница 16

I sit comfortably in Row E

Seat # 74

as a Punchinello man Seat #73

oozes over

the arm rest

occupying a portion

of my seat

the conductor enters

polite applause audience members eschatalogically cough

orchestra shifts toward

stillness as baton

is raised

with the swift

downward

sweep

of the wand

a coronet screams

frightens the yellow oboe

which turns into a combative saxophone

each does vitriolic battle with the other

as blue violins and violas sigh at the madness of it all

basses with red bows already strung out

complain

but only the harp fathoms

the depth of the musical problem

and says

go pluck yourselves

rattled by all that is happening

the snare drum

shouts at them all enough! enough!

while in the very back row

the french horn makes out with the pink triangle ( not ménage à trois) understand

but lots of french kissing going on

the young flute whistles yowee!

four trombones stick their noses into it

piano thinking itself far too grand for all this

gets keyed up

then a chorus wishing it could be a cappella

sings glaringly

to the conductor who startled

thrusts his baton overhead

brings it sharply to the floor

and the turquoise kettle bass slams the madness

to a caustic

finale!