Showtime

My horn’s in a hard case
in case my heart hears news.
The handle holds together,
tape and worn glue,
my Maestro moved to Europe
without a word, just a blue
note.

For some years, decades,
I unpack alone, feign guiding
tones, bend the air around
midnight and whisper shadows
to light, remember the ring
in the bell and the soft reed
rasping.

How my hands hold the push
and sway is a story loose
from the page, an age of chairs
facing the music, yes,
and the never known crowd
he walked through
to chord the stage.

The melancholy is only
one world, the holy
another chorus altogether.
The concrete room I play
holds and releases prisoners,
the echo bows and smiles
for the missing.