What We Were

Not a trumpet.
There was nothing brash or bawdy,
no reveille or brass.

Not a drum.
As much as we tried, we never could
get the rhythm right.

Not a guitar.
It would have required unwrapping our
fingers from one another.

Not a bass.
For all its depth, it didn’t have the
high notes we required.

Not a cymbal.
The “tsk, tsk, tsk” would have reminded us
too much of your shame.

We were none
but we were all.  We were the
whole jazz band:

the brooding horn, the step of the djembe,
the spur of the hi-hats and the weight
of the uprights in our chests,

writing a melody as we went along,
stumbling without rhyme or reason
deeper into one another.