The edge of me rounds out,
Running with jazz,
pulling on paper words
and twisting of hair in a crowd
where sunglasses
hide searching souls and feet eager for
a place to call home like buttons spilled
rolling and slapping
round on a floor without mercy
in a smoky room where last names
don’t exist
and whispers melt from corners
and chairs tilt and heads nod to a beat
while legs jump with heaven raised hands
in a night place
without a name answering to the call
of sound where blankets of brass
cool over the skin
brushing off the dust while breathing
in the black and letting out the light.
Roger Singer 