There’s no
washing off the
jazz
sticking to my
skin
floating down
like feathers
beaten from
a pillow.
Around corners
from under cars
through windows
or down the up
stairway
the jazz trips
me up
to listen long.
Under half or
full moons
I wander and
stumble
finding my way
to the soul of
music, feeding,
lifting, carrying
my thoughts
long past
the midnight
of my day.
Roger Singer 