Ground down cocaine
derivative coursing through my early morning
veins, my dinner time blues and late night
saturated fat on old Jazz music
of which I cannot play a beat,
yet hear every note that the Sax man plays
in earnest down on 77th Street gun alley
where only the night before a man was killed for less
than murdering a rag time special
and looking at his killer’s broad
with a funny eye.
The late November sun catches my eye
and through the glass I take a look around the street,