Maestro

Maestro

You are the master
Of orchestration
Playing me like the whole
Woodwind section
Your sharp ear attuned to
My reedy thin excuses
That we could enjoy the music
If we tried.

You planned my exit well
Waiting until the final movement
And by reminding me that my intermezzos
Had been too long.
I accused you of a flat affect;
You shrugged as if to say you merely
Directed and assessed
And it was clear that my interpretation
Was too dramatic when the piece
Called merely for restraint and reminders
That you were always the conductor.

So I exited
While your weary eyes and smug lips
Watched me pack my low blow oboes,
My what is next clarinets, and flutes
Rendered mute by your planned apathy,
And your soulless sonata.

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Death in December

Death in December