Evening Commute

The train croons blue in the golden gray,
Like horns in a heavy band.
One tight chord complains;
Whoever called it “whistle”?
This is no Mayberry fling;
This is the shook-up deep,
The echo of an old jazz thing
Back when jazz was just
A moan, which travelled
Through the magic tunnels of
Trumpets and trombones,
And slid by languages not keen
To these laments; these beg
To be delivered straight
From human bones to heaven’s gate
Through horns in a heavy way.