The solitary sound of a blues trumpeter
Wailed high and long, then low and haunting
From within the city's bowels.

Standing lean and muddy yellow,
He held the dingy trumpet downward and swayed from side to side
Giving painful birth to an oppressed-energy-zero-possibility sound...

Strange accompaniment to a morning of sunshine and warm breezes

off Lake Michigan.

Nodding to those who offered coins to the matted velvet of his trumpet case,
He sustained the sad, unstructured melody
That never stayed the same but somehow never really changed.

by Irene Voth

Contributors retain all rights to their work. ©1996 Kaleidoscope. Write Place. Volume 7.


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