He’s a cat with fight,
a tin pan scratcher,
a voice clawing to the top of his
jazz.
He was talked out.
His fingers coaxed the horn onto
alive
where it throbbed like a wound
or a hand shaking for
whiskey.
Water fires of applause waved up.
Sweaty hands lift the heat.
Cool eyes hide behind shades
of black night
where doors let pass
shadows to sleepy alleys
and pavements cold
under neons red and blue,
buzzing the last of night
.
Roger Singer 