It wasn’t the music that drew him,

not at first, but the shape it made

on a stand and the way it took

the light, staring back at him

from the pawnshop window.

 

And so he decided then and there

he’d learn to play it, taking

for granted his gift and the right

he’d have to cradle it

once he had mastered the keys.

 

Those first uncertain months

it honked and squawked

like a goose, its strangled plea

the voice of a victim until at length

he tamed and soothed it.

 

Breathing his warmth

and a whisper into the silent

metal, its song became his story,

recognizable and true

beyond its blank harmonics.

 

Night after night in clubs,

his eyes closed and swaying

gently, he played his horn

like a golden orchid

above the smoke and shadows.