|82 year old musician playing the trumpet at a hotel lounge.|
He talks as much as he plays,
about gigs with famous singers,
hit songs I recognize, but didn't experience
the smooth crooning of those times.
He dreams tunes of bygone days when young,
adventures now embellished by his love,
of no regrets, though his presence is obscure,
within the fame of his art.
Makes me think of another who also loved
but now unlives his passion in hollow chamber of his heart.
His silent trumpet plays so faint, pipedream
forgotten, merely delusion, that maybe only I recall -
audience of one, fan who loved to see
his cheeks inflate as soulful melody escaped
to entertain me.
But never did his fervor burn.
Obligations extinguished talent's flame,
replaced it with mirage of fumes.
His aspirations never became.
So I sit to listen as this man plays,
the joy that was, that is his life.
And when my friends get up to complement
his romance by slow dance,
(Submitted to Dverse Poets for open link night.)
(My uncle played the trumpet and the drums. As a child I often listened and marveled at the music he made. In later years, I observed him tap his fingers and feet to music as he tried to stifle it's call. He's in his 80's now. He married, had children and went on to become a bartender in a swanky club in New York. And he stopped playing.
The man in the photo played the trumpet well. He reminded me of who my uncle might have wanted to be.)