The usher gave us the wrong program and could not find our seats, or even our row.
The chandelier had three missing bulbs.
I found a wad of hardened gum under my armrest.
The popcorn was cold and greasy.

Too many violins, not enough French horns.
The conductor wore purple, wrong for the season.
One string on one electric guitar–the D–was just enough out of tune to grate.
The timpanist was counting the half-beats. I could see her moving her lips.
The solo pianist used too much sostenuto and the tenor smirked.
The second trombonist had audible spit in his horn.
The bagpipes were flat and the hurdy gurdyist was obviously drunk.
The harpist was in jeans. Lost luggage is not an excuse.
When the flautist stood for the allegro amoroso his pants fell down.

Behind me, a man kept snuffling and the woman with him kept whispering “use your hanky.”
All during the andante pessimisto a baby cried.
The audience applauded after every movement and the conductor smiled at them and bowed.
My husband fell asleep and drooled on his black tie.
At intermission, they ran out of champagne.
When I finally yelled “Fire!” the orchestra cheered and left the pit;
only the conductor remained, swinging his purple baton.


This was an “April prompt.”

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