In crowded company
of musicians through the ages,
I’ve fumbled in attempts
to play while turning pages.
More than once I’ve chased
sonatas to the floor,
twisting off the bench
to nab the fleeing score.
Flagrantly contrary,
it always had the knack
to land so I’d dislodge
my sacroiliac.
To keep the left hand going
and play at obtuse angle
crossed Mozart with aerobics,
performance art fandangle.
Now comes a pageless music,
no flip and fumble here —
what a total wimp-out,
musicianship veneer.
What kind of ease is this?
It seems somehow a cheat
to keep your fingers focused,
turning pages with your feet.
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.
September night
Oddments 