Damn the man who invented the saxophone.

Damn him for the dances attended as a
wallflower, finally being picked and then,
like a flower, being cast aside and stepped on.

Damn him for the late night radio shows and
the jazz ballads late night deejays like to play.

Damn him most of all for the tones of saxophone
found in malls and elevators and even on street
corners in the city---invading and evoking
memories all the way up to the door of my apartment.

And damn you.

Damn you for being such a good player of
that thrice-damned instrument that the woman in
green in the front row fell in love with you too,
and you left the apartment I used to call ours.

Damn the saxophone you left behind---
everywhere I go.