There is a thirst in my fire.
A cloud heavy with wet,
ready to release a river.
In my head a muscle pushes
rocks, forcing rivers to overflow,
changing the course of
brown gravel
into the sounds of me.
I am a prisoner of music.
The maker of jazz and the roll of it.
A storyteller of red dirt,
off balanced fans and
empty bottles of beer.
I am the dog pulling on the chains
of a not so distant past.
Clenched fists hold no pens.
Closed eyes reject change.
It’s a dream that wakes me
from sleep, forcing me to do that
jazz thing.
Roger Singer 