Susanna Kittredge
Honey in the Comb
The broken horn tasted better to the trumpeter’s lips.
Spittle collecting in the mouthpiece shaft,
the snowy sound made its way out of the bell in panting moans.
This trumpet was salty.
This trumpet tasted like a smooth beach stone;
playing a shiny new horn was like kissing freshly minted quarters.
He liked the broken horn because it should have been dead,
but kept right on wailing anyway.
He loved the broken horn because it looked like dirty brass
but it sounded like honey in the comb.