When the bandstand is empty

When the composer’s pen has pirouetted
across the page and exited the stage.

When each note’s breath is exhaled
as fire and reduced to ash.

When emerald melodies are shattered
and shards of glass are swept away.

When the plumed choir is plucked
from the boughs they sing upon.

When the fingers that shimmied
across ivory steps now stand frozen.

When the drum’s jungle beat
has whittled to a drizzle drop.

When spooned ladles of songs
become a drop of bitter brew.

When the bandstand is empty
don’t beg the band to play for you.