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Eight minutes left and the oboe aums

behind conversation, anticipate

flutes and piccolos tinkle, laugh

as the head of a cello dances from the pit,

a snare drum celebrates, chatter boxes chat.

Sky-blue balcony with gilded trim,

tipping water bottles, men in jackets.

Two minutes now and the buzz increases.

Sondheim’s a word in my phone, you bet

and he strains for truth, beginners please.