Symphony
Baroque sounds massage the night.
little boy whispers, “mommy, would you like it
if
s o m e d a y
I wrote a symphony for you?”
Waiting for the performance to begin
I retreated into the audience. he –
comfortably settled against backstage wall
between ‘dear Santa, please
bring me a pipe organ for Christmas’ and
tentative notes of trumpet jazz coming from the bedroom.
Watching from the balcony, blades scream across the ice
run after run – searching for the rhythm.
over and over puck sails into the night.
sweaty laughter will fill the parking lot.
Boy, where has your music gone?
In the closet, skates rest off balance against trumpet case
waiting.
