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T. R. HUMMER | For Dancers Only
The Lonesome Road
The black cars roll in their endless funeral line.
Somebody's on his way, going, going, gone—
Not home but back. Not passed away but shattered.
Black limousines like notes on a staff, hearse
Like a big bass clef. The tuba player lifts his load
Of dented brass at graveside. He blows
Three great dark notes, a minor triad.
Why is he always early? The good, he thinks,
They all die young. But when will the drummer show
With his bell and his snappy snare? He can't remember
Driving here, or where this big horn came from—
Only the music in the parlor, O Didn't He Ramble
On the gramophone. That, and the syncopation
Of tires on asphalt. Odor of alcohol, texture of felt,
Distant flavor of brass. That, and the cold counterpoint
Of a stethoscope on his chest. Breath out of tune, out of time. 
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