Foreign Voices

They sung.
Sung.
Before.

 

They were not forced,
In fact they yearned.
for. it.
I did not.

 

I loved their voices.
I hated conducting.
I hated the ten batons.
that gave them
Permission.

 

I left
the ensemble.

 

Today I returned,
Noticing their dust filled dresses
of black and white.
Longing for my old batons
to beat the dust from their tresses.

 

Like their dresses,
my batons were pelted,
unlike their dresses,
my batons were cracked,
brittle.
Split.

 

Yet they still begged.
And I agreed.

 

Mounting myself properly, 
I rest each baton on the cool zebra
of my piano.

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