FAT WITH JAZZ

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.

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