Song for Adam Smith

Valets in red jackets huddle in the doorway of the social club,

emitting little puffs of breath as they watch the streets flood

with well-dressed couples in tuxedos and heels,

followed by musicians lugging black cases which conceal

cellos, oboes; all of them flowing away from Symphony Hall, 

on the second floor of which, through a window I can see a tall,

severely balding young man 
pacing back and forth with a cell phone in one hand

and a trombone in the other, white sleeves rolled up. 
He seems agitated, chattering nonstop.

Finally he slips the cell into his pocket

and starts to play; at least it looks like it.
I can’t hear a single sharp or flat through the glass. 

He swings the bell; light polishes the brass.
He pumps the slide enthusiastically, strutting like a lunatic
around the room, every movement duplicated

by the wall-length mirror. I’ m frustrated:
what good is music you cannot hear?
“Come out into the street,” I want to yell, “and share
your gift with those of us who can’t afford a seat
in the back of the hall, much less the balcony.”
But why should I begrudge this musician
this self-indulgent moment of enjoying his isolation?
It just seems like a tease, like being at a peep show
and longing to touch the girl behind the window.

The muted notes tumble out until 
he’s knee-deep in them; kicked up, they swirl
through the air like confetti snowflakes.

A comely flautist in a camelhair coat takes
my attention away with her for a moment,

and by the time she returns it, the target of my voyeurism
has packed up his instrument

and flicked off the lights. He pulls the door behind him,
his music left behind in melting piles, going to waste,

as across the street, one of the valets 
begins to whistle a lively but out-of-tune melody.
I savor each generous note of his discordant charity.