SLEEPY ALLEYS

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

.

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