Coup

[Coup]

I'm a beggar of orchestral concert symphony
salvaging arbitrary tremors of afterthought
in the second balcony, forty-second row
nose bleeding, I occupy
comfortably
a proud oak chair.

Blacklisted above
muffled violin palpitations and
insipid pulls of rhythmic murmur
I begin to fold my concert program
seven times.

The Woodwinds dispatch a hum-drum
of empty spectacle
dog fighting
the hollow sorties of paper airplanes
raining down from the second balcony,
forty-second row.
Launched with the technology
of my velcro shoe.

The Strings respond
one octave lower, pitched
in stealth formation. Forcing a drop zone
to dissident sound gardens of
predatory hummingbirds.