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.
