if the oboe
were a woman,
she would be an Edith Wharton innocent,
an aristocrat
of penniless past,
demeaning present,
bleak future,
all passion corseted
to fit the day,
yet, somehow,
the velvet
spilling
out
or,
in a whim of Mozart,
a dancing child
with saddest eyes,
who mourns while merry
some deepknit sorrow
that marbles every
future joy
were a woman,
she would be an Edith Wharton innocent,
an aristocrat
of penniless past,
demeaning present,
bleak future,
all passion corseted
to fit the day,
yet, somehow,
the velvet
spilling
out
or,
in a whim of Mozart,
a dancing child
with saddest eyes,
who mourns while merry
some deepknit sorrow
that marbles every
future joy
