“Stop, stop, stop.
The tempo is off,
Again, from the top.”

The brass is sharp.
The woodwinds are flat.
The percussion is rushing.
The strings are lagging.
The entire production convulses,
Like some deformed animal,
Suffering in its death throes.
Its pitiable cries,
Reverberate through the auditorium.

“Stop, stop, stop!”
I drop the baton,
And sink into my chair.
Dry, cracked hands,
Rubbing tired, red eyes.

Inhale. Exhale.

My composition bleeds,
Like the back of the deserter,
Taken to the lash;
Covered in the red ink,
Of a thousand revisions.
I take it in hand,
And take it apart.
Scrap after scrap,
Floating down,
And collecting in a mangled pile,
Of vain intent.

“A Fugue,” I say,
And retrieve the baton.
I’ll put it back together,
From the greatest to the least,
Till the individual parts,
Represent the whole.
I direct the percussion first alone,
They will provide the skeleton,
To which the remainder will adhere.
The brass next,
Melding together as sinew and tendon,
Fusing to the bone.
I close my eyes and bask in the harmony,
But the task is yet unfinished.
Cue the woodwinds,
Which become the nerves,
And the strings,
Cover it all with skin,
Until the piece achieves a new body.
I, myself, will grant it breath,
And life,
As my baton traces pleasantly through the air.