No poem came to me this morning
as I walked for an hour
in the snowmelt mist
threading my boots through
the brown salt muck and flotsam
winter's junk food wrappers
the city just stared
at its own face in the ice
as uninspired as me

Trombone bones
don't make a poem
Funny that you ask

I wonder what or why
made you the cry
Now I have to ask

"The bones are bleached
then laid bare
upon the Sands of time"

"We hang by threads
until we cut
the rope of life that binds"

Then the funeral proceeds
down the street
Clairenets , trumpets
and trombones

Life is chance
a game of dice
Won't you roll the bones

has the dawn overslept?
her shut windows remain unlit;
night still has a ball.