Improvisation
by Beth Marzoni
The lips he pressed close across my collar-
bone up against his baby grand in the sound-
proof practice room were not the same
lips that kissed his bottles of Bud,
that bloomed like a bruise against the shining
brass when he bowed to his trumpet
the way he must have bent
as a child to some summer sprinkler,
warm and thirsty and hoping.
