concerto for contra bassoon and coloratura soprano

there’s a silence in the hall.

maestro stands as still as a plank at the podium,

his bushy bushy black hairdo falling across the shoulders

of his tuxedo, a furry black coconut.

a hushed rumbling can barely be heard in the perfectly

balanced acoustics as players adjust to their chairs.

someone in the audience muffles the clearing

of his throat which seems to be considered as an opening

for others to cough, sneeze, or emit unrecognizable sounds.

so far so good.

the houselights have dimmed, there’s no instrumentalist

who finds it necessary to shake the spit out of the winding

avenue of his horn. not yet.

the slender soprano, dressed for a night on the town stares

intensely into the void between everything and nothing

as the conductor raises his head, lightly shuffles his feet,

bends at the waist holding his baton, scans the forces of his orchestra,

and begins the upbeat for the attack.

but my iPhone, previously set to amphitheater mode, and forgotten,

intrudes with Bach’s 435th whatchamacallit, and I rise to address the audience:

“Hey! It’s Bach instead”!