Gregory A. Kompes

Travel alone, a place of adulthood
Hit the pothole, just for fun.
Students with books, lessons, instructors

Sound surrounds my yellow bass
From each hall and room left, center, right,
Tympani tune, boom on cue

Ahead, cellos swoon, bows high in the air
Brass blares while strings shimmer
Pages turn, rests counted, bottom applied.

Over our heads, his arms indicate
"It´s a comic opera, the music shouldn´t be funny."
Temperaments of all sizes flare.

Guiding the troop, we follow as we can.
Years of Ginistera, Bach, Brahms, Rossini
Concerti, symphonies, overtures, andanti.

Lead, we follow, waiting for breaks
Smoking together in plastic-chaired halls.
Children as adults, all for different reasons.

Pressed white shirts and trousers mark seasons´ passages,
Most parents attend concerts
Following progress, congratulating themselves.

Searching the crowd, Others´ parents provide
Praise and pats that I enjoy.
Just another University Circle Saturday, alone.