IMPROVISATION #6
Time for a poet is always right.
A maxim of BZ Niditch
Today’s sky
will not be missed
in a sorry shade
of black and blues
when the greenness
of a tenor sax
is quietly smuggled
on the motorcycle
from my rented studio
will again sing all night
in small hours
and in improvisation #6
the wild scribbled over
music sheets I write over
will sound out soon
on a conundrum’s beat
from my chilled sax
exposed
as an orange slice
eaten on my motorcycle
here in the jazz corner
for my timely gig,
yet a poet is still
a Beat for life
in his runaway suit
when the same shade
shines in darkness
from a cool club
by the stage
near the blind window
staring back at him
with a sponged fog
on a wasted musician
and the angel stranger
from Los Angeles
who helped the jazz poet
by the scaling light
near the life-long highway
at the gas meter
is still here listening
both knowing the blahs
of survival
will not outlast
the skittering waters
spraying our faces
on the road
knowing at some turn
on route 66
the lady you picked up
with worry beads
in her pocket
who gave you directions
to the club
cares to hear you play,
and that spring
may be early
when words
will go down,somehow
like love from the Bird
himself
during the night
and the sax
will again beat out
its underground notes
to make the face
of the Blues in right
tempo and time.