The dirt of jazz
roams like roads under his skin.
He feels the change
of his blood to hot.
Listeners drip words from warm
whiskey.
High collars and smooth
talk rolls off chairs
of night wisdom.
Eyes breathe in
an appetite of full.
A piano dresses the air
with diamonds.
Voices long like ribbons
pull at the past,
exposing places of rest.
Sleep walks with a
blanket nearby.
He pushes slumber to a
back pocket where
weakness cannot
be heard.
Roger Singer 