The walls move in
on him,
pressing out the vintage
of his flavor,
forcing a banquet of
jazz
into drunken lazy air
where lipstick releases
secrets
and gin holds no lies
as the music burns
through the smoke
of last night
while
morning slaps the creases
of a sun
between chairs
and over faded curtains
as the yellow lays long on
sawdust floors
where napkins possess
wrong numbers
and names
while on a shadowed gray
stage
the trumpet man
blows his gold into a
stream of wet sounds
where dreams stick to
pillows
and sheets
as they hold the flesh of
lovers and friends
under stars of a music
that cuts to the
face of hearts.
Roger Singer 