He is a gathering man, like wind
pulling at leaves, or dry ground
praying for rain. He is the cents of a
dollar, changing for no one.
He spits in places shoes fail to go.
Music knows him; his style is the air
escaping from the stage.
The aroma of a carnation boutonnière
is the dessert of his clothes;
innocence and darkness form the
creases of his long sleek line.
His lips lift words into waiting ears.
He is the jazz. The man with a message,
wrapped in sound.
Roger Singer 