A hushed purple trumpet
hangs heavy on its vine,
held by the connections, the hooks
the nature of itself, wet from the rain
starting to shrivel and curl
long past his heyday, a tenor
with a sore throat, a bit out of tune
fighting for his swan song,
after the sun warms him, gives him
a final burst of breath, to blow
for all he's worth, one last song
Mood Indigo no doubt,
Jazz funeral for the trumpeter
soon to fade away