The stars
don’t have
a chance
and that moon
up there
fat with cheese
smiling silver
and winking cold
holds not
a candle
to the man
and his guitar
pulling strings
thick like
Christmas bows
each note
popping up
like the sun
but that to
can’t hold
no heat
when those
picking fingers
snap into
fire
flaming alive
the song
from smoke
to blazing
burning jive
sweating the
foreheads and
hands with
the jazz
from that
man.
Roger Singer 