An over wind pushed up a black
shirt collar; his shoes form a bond
with wet sidewalks.
His eyes absorb the night,
like a hawk searching the land.
Lines of street lights step him
from one circle to the next,
where he slides through shadows
with cool his face.
The sky broods over his
shoulders and unshaven soul.
The filtering of jazz seeps from open doors,
mixing an aroma of smoke and whiskey,
watering the garden of his skin
with the blood of sound.
Roger Singer 