The neon light ignites the night, burns thru the thick atmosphere. The city’s mist is a long exhale, coughing up sins, spitting out sorrow. Bullfrog stumbles past the double hung door, never touching a side. His presence and his sound do all the heavy lifting. His case escapes his grip and marries the sidewalk. Gleaming brass abuses wet cobblestone. Bullfrog never misses a beat.
The sun is done with setting and making it’s way to rise. An audience of none has their peace disturbed. The low hum and soft high, Bullfrog transforms souls to sound. Drunk and fat and tired, the prima trombone slides down and down. As log as the case is open, notes fall out where dollars once were.
If you ever find Bullfrog on the street slinging sadness, don’t worry to mistake him for a busk. He won’t raise a brim or bell.