I thought you
were rusting
in the blue
felt-lined box.

Neat dovetail
joints framed
your bespoke
resting place.

But, brass
doesn’t rust,
it only stews like
over-brewed tea.

And tarnished,
arthritic valves
no longer wheeze
a tune from you.

I wonder,
if you ever
graced a noble
stage,

or simply
bled in the
hands of a
dilettante.

I hope for
the former,
I couldn’t
bear the latter.