There is no struggling with a wayward cello on the train
Or carting a large canvas through dank cornfields in the rain.
No need to worry chapter sixteen has somehow been deleted
Or that the woodwind section remains a long way from completed.
No welding burns to speak of, hammered thumbs or calloused palms ,
No temperamental band mates whose bad habits raise alarms.
No fearing, that the next plié will surely split these tights
Or some acerbic, carping critic has got you in their sights.
Just, fingers crossed the last few lines like miracles unfold
Before the walk is over or the bath become too cold.
Yes, I concede the poet’s lucky, yet still I do despair
For all the artful artistry the money isn’t there.