If I Were A Saxophone

If I were a saxophone,
as after dying and coming back
I may be
with molecular restructure,
or reincarnation, if that pleases you.
I wouldn't want to be the one
polished and brassoed,
placed upon velvet in an airtight case,
just to be brought out
and surrounded by the Glory of God
in a Sunday Gospel Service,
with clapping and Hallelujah.

If I were a saxophone,
although the sounds may comfort
or haunt you,
I wouldn't want to
be the sax,
hanging in the air all alone
or dangling
from the tattooed
fingers of a ghostly Scott's hand,
sending Miles Davis throughout the land.
Though these air sax sounds
float about,
knowing no bounds.

If I were a saxophone,
I would be the saxophone
whose sweet sounds
accompany the jazz funeral
down the street they call Bourbon.
This sax, sad and mournful,
doesn't blow for the dead
in the gilded carriages,
rolling stately and slow,
but for the city who
is slowly raising her
proud head above water.