The fingers of his childhood
pointed into heaven, teasing angels
with music food, coaxing their beauty
to his porch to slap their wings
in approval.
Mockingbirds held the tongue
of their voices when his horn
owned the air, bending
the sky onto the dust of his shoes.
Fields of labor stirred the rocks
of his shoulders and the creases
deep in his hands; long days
formed his strength.
The jazz put him deep in his color.
Roger Singer 