Little boy, blue jeans to the belly,
puffs his little red cheeks—
his pointed spectacles, falling down that button nose,
watch as he blows his mind into the trumpet.

He’s supposed to learn Henry Purcell today
he guesses, and the sheet music flops with every fruuump!
but him and Jack,
who dreams and pants, half under the couch
and half on the rug,
want to run around outside
with the gigantic blue ball the neighbor boy left in the backyard.

In his dreams, he is the black-suit first chair
of the local philharmonic orchestra;
but mostly he wants to stick his toes
in the frumpy garden bed and throw sticks for
Jack to fetch happily.

In his dreams, his mother stands, sobbing softly,
watching him fruuump! with all the hours she
told him to sit in the armchair and practice;
but mostly he wants to run and run and
collapse in the shade with Jack.

In his dreams, all the neighbor boys line up
to listen to his melodious trumpet,
all of them with little hands on their hearts;
but mostly he wants to eat a nice sandwich
out on the porch with Jack.

For now, though,
he’s just past the fourth measure and
it’s not even that good. It isn’t time yet
to go outside. Jack shifts underneath him
and snores lightly, as the trumpet screeches along.



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