la trompette honteuse

In my fourth-chair trumpet~

in particular, that moment in time;

like a walking fauteuil à bascule,

ill fitting and out of line.

Raised hips in sudden scurry,

they all turned to watch me go;

in pity upon their faces~ slavishly,

I admired their snobbish glows.

Yet, I detained my eyes from wandering

towards their stares, along the row.

Glad for sounds of dining glasses

and the doors that open and close.

Entombing me, in a barrage of clinking

a bang heard~ I truly welcomed the sounds;

preserving me, against indignity,

while all the Garçons made their rounds.

Still, the words I left in tow that night

were always meant to be.

And, if you were there in that particular moment,

you would have had to agree.

But~ be that as it may,

hands still stay in my pocket,

head tilted in a downward climb;

the words still echoing like a Libretto,

in its final melodic chime.