In his fingers
a burning pressed
hard to the
surface.
His thoughts
smoldered heavy
in thick smoke
circling about him,
then burst
like spattering
grease
into dangerous
thirsty flames.
His sharp cut
pork pie hat
danced in circles
like planets
spinning out
of control.
Blue dark
sunglasses
reflected the crowd
while hiding
his soul
from capture,
as he lived
fat in the
Jazz.
Roger Singer 