Air notes of glass
slip sharp
through smoke,
cutting a path
to a crowd
lazy with music
sitting under willow trees
holding hard the jazz
like warm black
roads of summer.
Fat clapping hands,
long days of beer
and evenings short of gin,
cool his hands
into the drain of night.
He is the calling.
Dressed in black,
hat tipped down and
a lip wet cigarette
balancing his face;
the rising smoke is from
the fire within.
He feels the eyes
reaching into the spirit
of him.
Roger Singer 