The trumpeter on the street corner plays staccato bursts into the gloaming air.
No band behind him, no radio beside him, only the evening commute to catch his notes.

An old man in trilby and checked scarf walks past, head down to the pavement,
A young man in dark coat and tie passes him to take the cross street, and
A woman intent on the beat of her shoes and the click of her heels sees only the road in front of her, heading east.

Two blocks away the woman's heels still click and clack to the beat
To the south the young man catches himself humming a bassy line
And the old man whistles to the night, as the trumpet's voice floats on the evening commute.

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Posted by Gregory Taylor