Trumpet Player

The Negro With the trumpet at his lips Has dark moons of weariness Beneath his eyes where the smoldering memory of slave ships Blazed to the crack of whips about thighs The negro with the trumpet at his lips has a head of vibrant hair tamed down, patent-leathered now until it gleams like jet- were jet a crown the music from the trumpet at his lips is honey mixed with liquid fire the rhythm from the trumpet at his lips is ecstasy distilled from old desire- Desire that is longing for the moon where the moonlight's but a spotlight in his eyes, desire that is longing for the sea where the sea's a bar-glass sucker size The Negro with the trumpet at his lips whose jacket Has a fine one-button roll, does not know upon what riff the music slips It's hypodermic needle to his soul but softly as the tune comes from his throat trouble mellows to a golden note