Train Poem #4

He stood alone.

The small, beaten stage

had weathered long decades.

Dim lighting showed symbols

of written music gathered around

his torso, his head. They emanated

from his ears, his eyes, his ribs.

It was a sculptural display around a

silent figure. Menacing bass clefs toured

through the audience, then glided away

like lazy crows or sparrows. The other

players joined him. Each was tattooed with

a life’s tragedies and triumphs. He tapped

his foot, raised his horn in salutation to the

crowd, and to his fellow musicians. A raucous

symphony emerged.

(Note: This poem has not been approved by any musician.)