What’s in that trumpet is
Birds on a wire
A whole day with everybody
Outside, there are
Dreams that extend down a
Marble hall that has no end
There is joy in slowly buttoning
One’s shirt for the day
There’s unity with that dust
That hangs in the room
Friends with light
There are hundreds of mystic words
Waiting to be shared
By neighbors
There is the dawning of a shadow
Overcoming the town
One can walk far into the street
Without intending to come back
There are falling flags
Finally, the ghost of love has returned
Now, no words are spoken
Now, shadows are girlfriends
And uncles are telephone wires
In a trumpet
One follows Satchmo
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