A far crying blues interrupts the silent night
in the downtown slums,
It pierces again, and again,
Changing pitch and tone
But never changing,
lesser or greater,
In patient wistfulness.

Strangers,
Spraining ankles on broken sidewalks,
Hear the distant outcry of brass
& snap fingers as they saunter
between dim streetlights,
Realizing city’s sorrows are shared
among found sorrowful.

If you follow the calls of dimming nostalgia,
Over rooftops and antennas,
The lone trumpeter is found,
Leaning on a rusted fire escape
Among higher floors of worn apartments
& thick grey clouds of industry
In cathartic meditation
His cheeks puff and blow,
Reminding neighbors
There’s good out in the world
& there’s bad,

But in the oblivious dark of night,
The roar of a trumpet can make peace
within the burnt hearts of cities
To fend both good and bad off
So only memories may linger,
& remain until swollen cheeks tire
for passion of night ceases
unto another day.