Diz Is Dead

As the cab pulled away from the curb, the driver reached
down to pick up a silver trumpet with his right hand,

maneuvering through the wet San Francisco streets
full of traffic with his left. It was then I noticed

the music on the radio, slightly louder than the garbled
voice of the dispatch, the way it seemed to affect

this man. The mouthpiece to his lips, answering solos
of the past with present breath, he detached from

the meter, the steering wheel, the brake, the turn signal,
leaving those things to operate themselves,

taking time to converse and mourn. When I arrived
at the hotel, the same jazz station was playing

in the bar accompanied only by ice clinking
in raised glasses of scotch, twice as empty.