Roger Singer

His jazz is thick,

mantled in hair

black with twists

rich with shine

absorbing the lights

as his hands

push the track of

strings

chasing

demons

of his love

while fingers

run over fences

in his mind

into shadowed alleys

where smoke

chokes the air

as his eyes close

he slaps the bass

awakening the life

within

spilling into ears

the many paths of him

with a glimpse

of a life

even he cannot

fully explain

with fingers

and a bass.