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.