In heaven peace will reign: in orchestras
we’ll get along. Conductors won’t abuse
the players, griping won’t occur because
there won’t be any strife. No on will use
excuses; oboists won’t scream about

a rotten reed, the catty players won’t
exist, and string players won’t ever shout
about the other musicians who don’t
play quite as many notes yet make the same
amount of money (no more salary
will save us from that old complaint). The fame
we often seek in this life will not be
important. Even trumpeters will change;
no longer will the competition be
the loudest, fastest, or the highest range–
their goal to simply play quite beautifully.

In many ways I cannot wait. I’m sure
that this will be a peaceful, wondrous time.
And yet I worry, wanting to ensure
there’s leniency for when I want to whine.
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