1. 

There was never a perfect note.
I mean that nothing ever grooved in exactly 
the way the sheetmusic 
showed.

In case you’ve forgetten:  I played trumpet in a trio,
all stripped-down groove, you said, bright as brass and 
raggedy around the edges, 
come on!

I'm not saying that mine is the 
only song, 
only that it is 
mine.

2.

When you left, I knew you'd be back for a reprise
because of that wicked bridge on "Blue Train."
Three months, not a 
peep.

Next I heard, you were gigging in Paris:
standing bass on a tourist boat, easy women
burning money, and would I like to 
come?

Let me count the ways.  Opening thirds, 
rising seventh, resolve on the fifth with a sustained minor
-- shit, you thought I’d have to 
think about it?

3.  

But the blood thins quick as your breath,
trying to blow a horn into the wind.
Don’t forget:  you’ve seen me 
naked.

Every night red with wine, whole bars 
played backwards, women resolving then dissolving,
and more sunsets decayed than sunrises 
sustained.

Later, alone, relearning those old songs.
Everything just a matter of spaces between notes,
far being one thing, and near something altogether 
different.