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.

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