In Memory

My fingertips trace along
the cool, slightly
tarnished silver,
coming to rest gently
on touch-worn keys,
stiff with neglect.

I remember a time,
not long ago
when holding this horn
did not feel so
meloncholy and awkward.

I shift my gaze from
my distorted reflection
in the lightly dented bell
to the smiling paper eyes
of the man who recognized
the heart of a musician
in the casing of
unschooled talent.

I doubt I've ever read clearly
the words under that
program picture-
"In memory of"...
They always seem to waver,
refracted through
damp films of sorrow.

"I know I should still
be playing,"
I whisper to the
memories of 3am practices,
the concert poster lined office
spicy loud with zydeco notes,
random alligator collectibles
peeking out from between
custom instruments and
stacks of Mozart,
and the tribute recital
performed to the rhythmic
metronome hum of a respirator.

I blow a sigh through
the intricate metallic tubing,
hoping to keep the embers
of my orchestral fire
warm and glowing,
buried under piles of
priority ash though they may be;
and I watch the purple velvet,
that cradles my potential
when it gets stowed away,
deepen in a few
round salty marks.