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.



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