The strangest pamphlet I ever read
advised against falling in love with saxophone players;
especially those highly proficient on the tenor.
They sit apprehensively awaiting their entrance,
leaning forward in their seat, alert,
poised at the perfect angle to attract.
Then they slowly lick the reed
a measure or so before they enter
and they put their mouth over the mouthpiece and play:
swaying forward and back in time,
fingers gently cradeling the keys,
pressing and reaching with such delicate touch and breath.
A low, full sound comes out:
the perfect register to hold beauty
and a heart.
Then I saw a tenor saxophone
being played by a figure
with no face.