On Stealing What is Given Freely
Long winter's practice, it was clear,
Was part of what impressed the ear,
But who⤠have thought to find them there,
A concert made in summer air between
Church tympanum and tone-deaf traffic?
It was love of playing that was graphic
In the brass quartet in dungarees,
The waste of talent on the evening breeze.
True, there was a case propped open
(Whose city sense was left unspoken)
But even if one felt like paying
The music had a way of saying
It was gift for gift, in exchange perfected.
Until a drunk came along, and stood in front,
                                          And directed.
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