He is a silhoutte
a sax in hand
his forhead wet
Cheeks tomato red
fedora on his head
The music is
a-ratt-a-ling as
the walls start
vib-raa-ting
You don't belong
here, you tell yourself
as the man rises
the end of his song
He raises his hat
to you, his hair
matted down, flat
your smile unsure
he descends the stairs
He is no longer
black and white
shades of grey
his smile is bright
his face a bay
to his ocean eyes
His voice is
star-ta-ling
the conversation
in-vit-ing
but you've got
"to get going"
He invites you
to stay, watch
him play
you nod "no"
you have to go.
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