Ode to New Yorker

Whose cello is that? I think I know.

Its owner doesn’t seem happy, though.

What did the conductor say to him?

He walked away, face so grim.

I watch him walk back to his chair,

Slumping down in sheer despair.

He sits for a while, head in his hands.

I’m startled when he abruptly stands.

Taking the cello’s neck in one fist,

I watch him destroy it with a flick of the wrist.

Splinters of wood are all that remain

Once the dust has settled, instrument slain.