Tonite it is the sound of trumpets stirring my pot of longing. and i guess the crickets deserve some credit too. But it’s that horn with its proud whine that makes me stay in the car even after i park and turn the headlights off. Trumpets shoot through my center and vibrate in my throat. They dare me to walk away or walk towards a thing with my head high. Tonite trumpets tell me to nevermind the moon or the stars. Nevermind the rain. Lock the door, you are all mine tonite. Just me and the note that presses my longing out slow like a hot iron smoothing down a wrinkled pant leg from waist to ankle. Its rise that steps in to shine the black leather shoe back and forth and then ties the lace up in an elegant bow. The trumpet in my heart has a freshly pressed suit laid out on the bed for me with shoes on the carpet ready to slip on though i tuck myself naked under the covers.