HORNS EVERYWHERE, not hard pointy protrusions from heads, but
trumpets and saxophones and trombones, shoved in closets, stuffed
under beds, buried in the yard, hidden horns, tubas and French ones,
a whole gigantic marching band, one that used to be louder than
bulldozers, louder than jets, louder than Aunt Catherine after three
margaritas (no salt), a single euphonium seen from an upstairs
window gave it away, authorities alerted, neighbors notified, hushed
horns at the house on Hillcrest, oh, I wish I had been there at their
unveiling, removed one by one, silent brass, saved from danger,
work of madmen.
