the lone trumpeter

feet firm and apart
shoulders back
eyes closed
lips to metal
and then –

the note.

golden chocolate and
weeping swans
slide through the bell

a second note
glides from the first
fades into the third

and a fourth
a fifth
a sixth

they tumble from the walls
jumble in exquisite patterns
tussle in a game of music

they roll down the aisles
crawl into the seats
slumber in the curtains
swirl on the stage

around her feet.

she sings through the instrument
the brass cools and melts
her fingers

and empty chairs weep,
nod at her story
the stairs groan in sympathy

does she know the power she holds?
kings would kiss her shoes
to listen to

one
whispered
note

but she plays not for royalty
her audience is the chipping ceiling paint
the crumpled ticket stubs

her loneliness rains from the trumpet
pours into the orchestra pit
the hall floods with her song
will no one listen?

she opens her eyes.

no one is there

but for a face at her feet
and two crossed knees

a friend.

To Sharna.

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