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.





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