Dear Martin,

I've known you now nearly longer than anyone, other than my dad, who gifted you to me when I was young, told me, play well, have fun

When the repairmen at the music shop learn of you, they marvel at an old Martin, like you, a rare saxophone of renown, a bell with a soft jazz sound

I've carried you on stage and you've carried me through band concerts and live shows, and gave me a way to discover notes when I lost it in rock and roll

You've been bent, my friend, and broken, too, and filled with breath and spit, and you've listened as I've spoken in whispers to you, and never complained, not even in those years I quit

and now, I sit, writing in wonder, that you, Martin, have sung my life with me, a tenor sax with unique tone, my faithful friend in harmony

for Open Write