Before
the Curtains Opened
My god, she looked uncomfortable…
Marooned on a solitary crimson island,
Waiting for the rest of her band to arrive,
With her shimmering trumpet trembling
Like a child on her disquieted knee.
Who could honestly blame her?
Left alone, I’d have cased my trumpet
With hasty contempt and slunk away,
Leaving spectators to watch the dust fall…
Yet she minded the store like a pro.
She waited with dutiful resolve,
And when a march of musicians
Filed in and filled their vacant seats,
When they sounded thunderous greatness,
Her trumpet bellowed, bold and proud.
