Listen—this is critical:
my favorite scent 
is cinnamon
because I’m tired 
of being buried
beneath a pile of clothes
in the upstairs closet. 
The last time
I honked mellow 
was twenty years ago—
middle school sweat 
and the muddy sound
a non-savant makes 
as they press their slick lips 
to my mouthpiece,
blowing until their face 
turns teal. 
I have no idea 
when they’ll run 
out of money 
and pawn me
for lunch meat turkey—
I hope it’s soon. 
I want someone 
to enter and give me 
a reason, any reason,
to swoon and bark 
brass. Please.