He raised the trumpet to his
Took a breath and licked his lips.
Eyes closed tight, the mouthpiece pressed,
Like a lover's passioned kiss.
And that mellow sound filled the room,
Dancing lightly in the air.
The man with the metal in his hand,
Played without a care.
And the melody surrounded him,
As each new note was born.
And the music was part of the man,
With the shiny new horn.
He knew all the old-time tunes,
From the Dorsey and Glenn Miller bands
He played a lot in his younger years,
The man with the metal in his hands.
And love came along, he took a wife,
While he was young and free.
He played at night to amuse himself,
And started a family.
He took a job as a machinist,
Working with metal in his hands.
He played his trumpet only once in a while,
Keeping up with life's demands.
It was all day long by the
Grinding out auto parts.
But the music it made just wasn't the same,
As the music he heard in his heart.
With six mouths to feed he
Seven days a week started to show.
Asthma took his breath away,
His teeth were next to go.
He couldn't play that horn
All worn out from work and beer.
He kept it polished and oiled the valves,
When he held it he could hear.
© 1984 by Alan Beck