I knocked on his Amherst door unsure
of what I might say if he answered.
When he opened the door he was talking
on the phone in German, motioning
for me to come in. He wore his usual
three piece suit that hot June day,
alone in his house, his saxophone
and music stand at rest in the living room.

The air was pungent with something foreign,
his garden serene beyond the window.
When he hung up the phone it rang again
and he spoke French for awhile, then put
it down and asked who I was. Nobody,
I said, and we talked for an hour.