Mahler is only a murmur
from the second violin
to the first balcony,
outside the concert hall
the evening air is cold,
streetwise hooligans
fevered for a free-for-all
march to drum and trumpet
in their uniforms
prepared for future conquests,
drinking without leitmotifs
as a prelude to nowhere,
away from a Jew's harp
in a gorgeous cadenza,
roses greet the young soloist
hearing stunned applause,
curtains raised
elevator closed
programs passed out,
expecting history
to be made
on the next state,
Mahler's arias
enlighten the prodigy
on the keyboard
not knowing half the orchestra
will soon disappear.