Trumpets

 

 

 

Trumpets

It’s like the sound

of airplanes passing,

through thick

morning fog.

 

The righteous indignation

of someone’s

silent voice,

ripping through

cool ocean air.

 

An admiration of life.

 

Angry noise

in a box,

and a small child

cries on a corner,

somewhere.

 

And the wino

in the street

bums cigarettes,

from familiar,

passers by.

 

It comes through

the window,

like a slap to the face.

 

And a trumpet sounds

on main street.