The Old Tile Floor

I stood one evening years ago,
Trombone in hand,
On a polished wooden floor,
A great many people in front,waiting,
An orchestra behind,
And squeezed my soul out of the shiny bell.
In the end I put down my horn and those in front
Put hand to hand and sent back to me their gratitude.
I left the stage, they called me back, to stand again
On the polished wooden floor.
It seems something touched them.

I stood yesterday
Bass in hand
On an old tile floor
Students in front, waiting.
I squeezed my soul out of my squeaky little voice.
Two dozen souls joined in.
Slowly at first
We built a song, and sang it out
And played it too
And then the room was alive,
And no one cared that there was no breakfast
This morning or supper last night
Or that they forgot their fathers face.
No one noticed the sweat running down
Our un-air conditioned faces, or that our
Meager space was not intended for little feet
But for chairs and tables not is use.
No one remembered who is smart, who is poor
Who is dirt poor,
No one noticed that I’m old and white and
They are young and black.
In the end I put down my bass, and they
Sent back to me
Their gratitude with peaceful smiles
Through shiny eyes as we sat ourselves
On the old tile floor.
It seems something touched them.