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.







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