a shadowy figure
leans against the overpass support
out of the rain, playing his trumpet

his open velvet-lined instrument case
lies empty on the sidewalk
too far away to be serious 
it's the most hopeless sidewalk in town
for foot traffic

but maybe that misses the point
you cannot see his face
so deep inside his hood
it may not even be there

cars go by in the rain
shrouds of inertia—

he plays to the applause
of sizzling tires
his mouthpiece just touches 
the cave from which he blows
music into the atmosphere

—a draft from space with a tune in it
echoes under rumbling concrete—

perfect acoustics