(An Elizabethan sonnet.)

In the cold distance he tooted his horn
Up the deep caverns of Fifth Avenue
Hearing from across the street I was torn
The time was nigh, my burning question due

I dropped a folded dollar
To match the other in his case
He blew loud melodies without falter
And my cause frozen, I turned to make haste

But then he paused
And I posed my inquiry
“My tuneless horn’s lost its cause,
Is there advice you can give me?”

Wound silly with rubber bands
Duct tape bound his instrument’s keys
After twenty years of playing with gloved hands
He held his horn at ease

“They’re all minor adjustments,” he said.
All minor adjustments, I thought, until you’re dead.