The crossroads of the beat
fills the shoes of his travel
under dark blankets of stars
weeping at the making of jazz
as the sweat of him
drips over his eyes
watering the seeds
in his mouth
forming words
that river run
his horn
waking Gabriel
as the sound walks the walls
stepping over yesterdays puddles
and pushing aside lazy
corner room smoke
where dark love
and tender tomorrows
are surrendered to silk
fingers and forked tongues
where kings drink whiskey
and women breathe the blues
and doors welcome
all shapes of hearts
under a hard moon
pressing silver onto streets
where high heels
and suspenders
find their way to
the place.
Roger Singer 