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birdland

the saxman leans his back
against the ironwound trunk of a lamp-post,
weary as hell but strangely mellow, as if
the damp sidewalk was beautiful gleaming
through the fog in the yellow spill
of the lamplight that casts his shadow
on the wall behind, and the blues notes drip
lazily from their brassy bell, glistening
with waterdrops, sweat and tears and condensed
fog. Muffled by the street and night he plays
with only the sidewalk to hear him
and the yellow cast that separates his music
from the empty blank beyond.