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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s