Trumpet's notes as smooth as velvet
on old, musty antique couches
or forgotten, sweeping dress
hanging behind a bookshelf
full of yellowed volumes

Splashing, you and I,
across quiet streets
the drizzle making them shine
like silver keys, speckled with age
or all these leftover jewels
still sparkling in my eyes

Cobwebs and creaking stairs
and then out into the fresh air again
walking under dripping green awnings
flapping occasionally in the breeze
like startled birds,
ducks who like the rain

Flowers we see are only the stiff ones
stuck on hats, and dusty
becuase it's not quite spring here
so close to the chilly gray waters
made, so long ago,
even before those hats were

Wet shoes on carpet,
creeping along among old-smelling things,
our voices low, though happy
and giggling at that,
and peering at this
and wondering who it was that once sat
ladylike, upon this soft red chair
sipping from teacups
thin as eggshells

Maybe whoever it was is watching us
joined by every dusty memory
and after we leave and drive away,
the old van making huffing noises
like invisible horses flaring their nostrils
and clunking like hooves on blacktop--
then whoever it was will trace
her delicate hands over the things we've touched
and maybe imagine she hears
the music of the plinking piano
and the velevt-smooth trumpet,
singing to the tune or our rainy day.