To expand my tiny heart
I go to the woodshed.

In an expression of empathy
with everything awkward,
I take in air
and let loose through the brass
bell of a soprano saxophone.

When my embrochure squeaks
I wrinkle my brow
to feign intensity.

Hoping to claim a serpentine charm
I begin each hour's lurch
with a long single note,
alone in a minaret
I call myself to prayer.

In tremolo,
I imagine legions of men
dropping the walls of our stubborn
private Jericho.

Brothers in circles playing
saxophones to learn what moods swing
when we come home from work.

Brothers playing saxophones
in compassionate schools.

Mentors humming harmony, as
the I am responsible reed section
mixes courage, saxophoning and air, 
the practised hearts
of men.

Will SchmitComment