Beside him laid a trumpet case , open , black, stained and aged,
lined with a shiny red fabric. Waiting for dollars. Or even a penny
Then there was me.
One seat reserved
Awaiting to listen with a fist full of complements and a pocket of compensation
He reserved a spot on the corner of Main Street every Sunday
Setting center stage under a tree, with an adequate amount of shade..
His trumpet sung forgotten notes , in the key of opportunity.
Yet, he had a habit to make a crowd gather.
Even birds would stop chirping….
And there was me awaiting my daily dose of music
Scheduled every Sunday. Morning
And there he was.
With just his trumpet.
I may reserve… 2 seats for the show next week.