LIght rain. A cream cheese bagel. Salad stuff.
Outside squatting a bench a mad trombone
Chunters and whines off key. A sort of drone
Never quite musical but dour enough
To be communication. 'Screw your art,
You pretty people with flamingo hair,
Baristas, poets. I was sitting there
Just there with an expresso when my heart
Jumped slightly. I saw failure as the bride
Who sought me out. I blow this horn to tell
Her tatters black and veil seek you as well'
And as he blew his sorry tale he cried
In tears as dark as coffee. And we knew
For most of us it was our tale he blew.