The notes rattled the chains in his head;
souls marching, singing the pain
of long days lost to labor
for another man’s dream.
Tears jaggedly cut his dusted cheeks,
coursing rivers equal with oceans once crossed,
added up and stacked onto the forever of years lost.
Dust and sand kick up from under
the shoes of the man who sings a
the jazz,
stirring the blood of rivers in
souls thirsty to forget.
Roger Singer 