The third chair trumpet, I felt no nerves at all as I slicked my pretty pencil lips.
My fingers don’t shiver with pugilistic pulsing on the valves
Jazz the niggers called it
should be felt in my virgin hips
count the meter COUNT IT (it breaks Basie’s soul in Quarter notes)
The Troubadours that will be jazzing junes at eleven don’t even know my name
My pitch glaze of soul poured into cold brass
When The Count kicked shadows my high C solidified his fame.
anonymous I (and only I) blow that true jass
The pimps of the sax
the boys of the beat
the arms of tracks
the bass that weeps
Tonight the lone third seat
falters the last fading tune
there’s someting to be said
when someone beautiful leaves the room.