The pleasure’s got his pain,
as tides rise and colors slip the doors
speaking his jazz into high corners
where names of him
reach the dogs of night, feeding their growl,
fueling the thoughts of love
lost in the leaving of shoes
and the rooms of broken visions left behind
and the darkness of smiles
painted red with words
drowned in half promises as they sink
like stones of favor to the bottom
where he picks up and strikes the high notes,
marking the place as his;
empty glasses speak of dreams.
Roger Singer 