poems by owen lucas

The orchestra swell
flirts, then fizzles.
Violins down bows
and crane to hear,
the baton jerks
invisible strings,
their faces pucker,
they put pedal
to metal, horse hair
to thrumming wire.
Excuse me please,
with halting palm
spread held high,
too much trombone.
Tutti! A-one two—
and they belch
before the mark—
No! I know that
this is tedious,
but again, tutti.
First clarinet rolls
her batting eyes
and tutts. New
blood, no good.
At last they gain
momentum, get
a clue and accel,
decell and cello
wilts a little slow
but on! Conductor
pouring sweat will
make this bunch
regret the day
they overweened
and missed the cue,
We're done! Go
home you sad
excuse for any
kind of — But
at his words
they drown him
out with scraping
chairs on pine.
In three weeks
time, he thinks,
at least it
isn't my work
they'll be raping.