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Sue Jamieson



Sleeping with the tuba
her one small predilection
its old brassy hump and battered valves


coil upon coil of intestinal tubing
for that low sound
her call to arms


how she loved its wide open bell
as it spouted oompah like an elephant
with bilge on the banks of the Nile.


Of course they all laughed
at her deep breathy note
at the spit gargling in pipes


at her marching with the Sallies
in black lace-up shoes
she still tastes the tarnish


obsessed with her embouchure.
She sleeps with tubababy in the fust
of the dark bunk bed


and on cold nights covers its bell
with soft cotton
cradle               loving             horn



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