Sing me up. Bring the jazz
for the baptizing of souls,
living strong, breathing cool fires from river running out of
the Ohio snaking down mightily
to Louisiana where the steps
get wide and songs speak
of folks left behind, walking
river banks, looking south,
humming the tunes I know,
lifting my blood to Little
Liza Jane while horns push out
the best of brass and snares
scratch a life of rusty and clean
never short of snapping fingers,
tipping hats and running out of kitchens
to the opening of sounds spreading
from windows, washing the air
sweeter than the dawn of bands
making the street cars hurry to town.
Roger Singer 