867 by Elliot Greenbaum

folks call them trumpet plants because the flower is long and thin
expanding into a bell like a miles davis trumpet

they irregularly blossom throughout the year as a gift
in shades of white toward pink and orange

tonight in dim light
in delicate tearful rain
in cool becoming cold
those blooms mysteriously inspire a delicious sadness poets once called melancholy

a delectable feeling of solitude that romantic poets crave
a sensation equal to fleeting love

i recently met a young poet
she cherishes her suffering heart
i think she has a bright future
in the business

now sitting in this room designed by käthe kollwitz
single electric bulb swaying from a rotting black wire
table top rough boards whose legs don’t match in shape or length
cold draft from broken stressed window
warped wood plank door without a lock
thank god there are no rats

now sitting
happily composing
plenty of black ink
a pile of white paper
happily sad

while outside
moonless night
trumpet plants in full bloom perform in a cold breeze