Up from the rafters of the underfloor,
the old man forces the his sax to whisper out
the birth of favored notes.
His fingers strain and shoulders ache
but he plays from his mind the songs
he knows, remembering the clubs and dancers,
the circling smoke and passionate eyes
absorbing the music.
In his youth he never expected age to
capture him. He ran from town to city,
playing the jive, releasing the jazz, feeling
the blues when he stayed to long.
He still plays up from below. One round
and then another. From his room.
From his heart.
Roger Singer 