With a disappointed glare at the floor,

A musician came to confess.

Just another one of his many mistakes.

A rusty trumpet sits idle in his hand,

It wheezes desiring one last song;

But the saints aren’t marching in.

The Trumpet sits on the rack of benched instruments.

Reminiscent of those cold Saturday nights,  

When it put the bandaid on a cut

Deeper than a skinned knee

With one final note,

The trumpet crumbled in its own rust.