The sight of an open stale trombone case

a nylon band jacket, its bright colour betraying age and sweat,

the distant thump of a disco between sets

all these things feature in my post traumatic dreams. 

 

The night time scapes of motorways

all day breakfasts in service cafes

oft recalled jokes whose punch lines are forgotten,

male preserves like old poultry houses

in forlorn landscapes on the way out or back home. 

 

The spittle key on that trombone is opened at last,

as the audience revolves to one last blast;

I usually wake up before the finale

but old habits die hard in tinseltown.