Roger Singer

 

 

 

 

 

Hungry teeth

shine with white

framed by lips

singing the music

with throaty words

offered up

bright like

morning pushing

past sleepy

hanging curtains

washing night

from fibers

and fingers

reaching into

working days

of men and sweat

and women soft

speaking silk

and sporting pearls

while waiting

with watching

that flat

wall clock

at the corner

of the office

to strike on closed

so doors can open

at the club

where the size

of jazz fits

all who wear

its sound.