“I have enough”, said she,
petulantly.
“Enough?”, said he.
The air was static,
the exasperation evident,
electric.
...
She wore a thin dress,
far too thin for the cold.
Thinner still, in my memory.
Sometimes I remember more than I have seen.
He was a man with a trumpet.
He played to the tune of
a dollar bill fluttering
in his broken trumpet-case.
...
“He speaks to me”, said she.
“What does he say?”, said he.
“Nothing”, said she.
“He tells you nothing?”, he asked.
“Nothing”, she said.
I waited in the silence.
The music was beautiful.
That music punctured by her delightful drama.
“What does he say, exactly?”, asked he.
“Nothing”, said she.
“Nothing.”
Said she.
She of that winter night. She of that dusty daze,
and frightening ways.
He was her pillar. He was her god.
...
“But you said he speaks to you”, said he.
“He does”, said she.
...
He began to pack his things.
He put his trumpet in its case,
with his money and his life,
and locked it shut.
He left his music
in the air that it was born,
to die.
...
I waited in the silence once again.
She was enjoying the silence,
just as much as she had, his music.
He gave her some money,
which she refused.
“I have enough”, said she,
petulantly.
“Enough?”, said he.
...
I once knew a man
who had had enough.
He was a man with a trumpet too,
who’d play a strange kind of blue.
He died, in the subway, alone,
with his music.
With his music alone.
She was different.
She had enough,
unlike he who’d had enough.
I waited in the electric silence.
...
“Do you hear him now?”, said she.
“I hear nothing”, said he,
petulantly.