Your shrill sound echoes down the sickly fluorescent corridor.
I try to ignore you.
Its jauntiness jars.

I feel I shouldn't like your racket.
It bounces off the pain-bearing walls.
It exacerbates my claustrophobia.

But perhaps your music is soothing to some;
High happy notes inspiring hope of recovery
Or of a deserved restful sleep enveloping dear ones.

But I hear only the low notes.
Out of time with my quickened pulse;
A foreboding soundtrack to my deliberately slow steps.

But, I know you play for no pay.
Busking in this hospital for practice and charity.
And I know too, you do good both night and day.

For your primary instrument is a sharp sleek scalpel,
Wielded by your steady, practiced hand,
Rehearsed and well-versed in surgical concertos.

But, out of hours, your instrument of choice lends you a voice,
Allows flourishes and improvisations,
Best avoided during operations.

But, were you aware that for visitors like me
That the clarinet would take on a life-long significance,
Taking me back to bittersweet memories of visiting my Taidi.

Now, though, I am older and a little wiser,
My memories of him are more than just of hospital visits,
And I wonder, could I ask one thing of you?

Why no Rhapsody in Blue?