He knows trouble.
and the songs and loss.
The nights past mornings
where the jazz patiently
waits for him
like a faithful dog
with good eyes
waiting for a chance
to release.
He knows about black moons
and shadows whispering
and back doors
of places he called
home for a night.
He cradles his horn
like a child just found
as he walks to the bus,
the ticket between
his teeth.
He sits and dreams of
Tonight.
Roger Singer 