The notes sing to me.
A grandma spiritual; warm evenings,
bugs buzzing on yellow lights,
a fever of warmth. Night solid with dark;
the breath of men gasp tired.
I see my youth. A ball of knots.
Tied up in love, broken under the
weight of tears; running eyes, inhaling
life into my soul.
The tracks on my bass; cold lines,
heated with fingers, spilling a story,
pages of pain. Fish jump in my head,
pulling me home. The river knows my name.
I cry the spiritual alive. Pull at its feet.
Knocking it down, wresting like Gabriel.
Forcing the mist of its shape to surrender
the jazz. Touching the groove in me;
I sing the remembers.
Roger Singer 