With muscle of song he grabs hard the
music, holding tightly the shadow
passing between him and the lights,
cooling for a moment,
his aching skin.
A storm of jazz brews from liquid horns,
spreading a rain of sound onto sweaty
faces and arms; the sticks and plates of sound.
Whirlpools of red lipstick capture him.
Names whisper into him. He smiles a
crooked smile of greed; soon he will forget
all their names. Only the perfume will
speak of last night.
On the threads of a departing crowd,
songs of jazz drain onto the street,
rolling to the curb as if kicked.
Voices breath out a life loaned
to them by the will of music;
a new light hangs on their words
while sweat cools.
High heels and sidewalks
trade rhythms of the quick and hard.
Overhead lights pale to the stars
in their eyes.
Heaven turns its back until 7am.