John Grey
Cylindrical tube and a flared bell –
I have my eye on you and my ear too.
You’re propagating sound waves
at the same time as you force your way
into the mouth of some sad looking bearded guy
with his back against the wall of an apartment building
and a cap at his feet, home of a paltry half-dozen coins.
He must be your trained monkey.
You need his air to wake up your reed
and his fingers for the right pitch and tone –
and his shamelessness of course,
for you’re too sweet to beg,
too melodic for charity –
but he has bad teeth, unruly hair,
baggy pants with string for a belt
and the parched look of someone
who can really use the money.
You flaunt your pedigree –
Sidney Bechet, Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw.
Sure, they were human too
but you regard them as almost your equal.
Not this bum though.
Without you, he’d be sifting through trashcans.
I drop a dollar note into that cap.
He nods a “thank you.”
Your pride plays on.