A sad morning song
the trumpet hasn’t begun
to play. I know them both
all too well.

My thumbs
twitch with knowledge
but I don’t know yet what
I should play — should I even use my thumbs?

Stare at them useless
as oiled meat hanging
on the rack at the Polish deli
I go to once on a blue moon morning,

generally after
playing my heart onto the floor.
I sing them in the car,
not weeping a little.

Driving home
having bought nothing
I waste a little time, then
a little more.

A Grateful Dead song
comes on the radio as I turn off
the stereo and step free of the car:
“till the morning comes…”

Now I wanna dance sprightly
up the stairs
and forget the song
I first heard at the market.

I wanted to hear
a trumpet.
I wanted to cry
for the sound.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Onward,
T