On the bank
of a wide river
where pause
collides with slow
a man and a guitar
finds rest
under dripping moss.
His broad
fingers find refuge
with the strings
like captured moths
circling feverishly
around a single
hanging bulb.
A calico cat
appearing dead
brushes its tail
without order
to the sound
of soft jazz.
The man
leans forward
mumbling words
to that cat,
smooth and gentle,
easy to wear.
from the soul
that sings.
Roger Singer 