Under the skin, a motor of sound.
Molasses fingertips play dark thick jazz.
Wet soaked dirt roads kick
start the aroma of his thoughts.
Smooth perfumed skin smiles into his lust.
His mile of strong words runs like
a river engine; a power few own.
A wind moves on a sweet green growing
field. His youth, shoeless, fills his
pockets with songs.
He opens the rich burden of giving,
without taking back.
Roger Singer 