He plays for himself, and
For the Danube.
Alone, on a field of stairs
He sits with brass on his lips
In the purgatorial wilderness between
The roiling streets and the
Roiling water. He can touch neither, and
He is both. The sound does not carry.
Why is he on the edge? Why on
The seventh step? Why here? Why
Now?
Who used to sit beside him?
For whom did he used to play?