He was a sax man, raising the heat
on the here and down, firing up stoves,
cooking with jazz, pushing it with a
lifting of hands, creating great sounds from
reaching as the wall clock crosses
over to tomorrow jumping his ride
colliding with the sun, splitting the shade
to shadows and jive until night
arrives and he creeps along with headlights
elbowing out the dark until that black
Cadillac passes by and night fills the
cracks back in as he approaches the
neon with his name and an arrow flashing
to the open front door where his song
language reaches the strength of him
to join in for a night too hot for the next
day to see his dreams melt on a road
like all the others.
Roger Singer 