The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Garland Strother

TRUMPET PLAYER IN YUCATAN

The sound came from blocks ahead of us,
a votive theme played in peace for a living,
the notes crafted with care cresting the noise

of bad brakes and out-of-tune horns.  
Mourning the past, the rhythm recalled
a hymn from someone else's childhood,

the unsung words echoing off stone
the Mayans carved for temples, tokens
now laid tight in a row of city sidewalks.

Looking at no one, he played for pesos,
bending his voice with the right hand,  
his eyes locked in privacy on the music,

a red tin can catching small coins in the air,
random counts of faith merging in brass
with his own—in thanks or praise or prayer.



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