As it Is
Was,
Were that Is
To be a
Has Been.

Lonely Jazz Man.
Man of Jazz.
Man for Jazz.

The solitary piano player
Rattles off old standards
In the hotel lobby
As the busy patrons pass.

He breaks between numbers,
But hears what he expects -
No applause.
That's because
He is out of his time.
The place is wrong.

He plays for no one,
Even though he is not alone.
He plays for no one,
Not even himself.

Nimble fingers -
Blood to
Black and White.
Bled by
Green.

Hide-a-ways and drive-a-ways
And Solitary Spots in between.
I say
"Robots are good looking
When they wash and do your cooking
All the time."

You say
"Poems are the best
When you can put them to the test,
And they still rhyme."

But they don't have to rhyme.
At least, I don't think they do.

Of hidden drives and allergies
A tall hedge is like a violent sneeze,
And you break the windshield of a car.
You break the windshield of an oncoming car.

To the dusty sneakers of the world:
Get wet, get *****, get defiled.
I say
"Problems are fantastic
When you wrap them up in plastic,
And the answer's there."

You say
"Plastic wrap is pointless
Unless pointedly anointed as a joie de guerre."
How morbid, Claire.

I don't have to win.
I don't have to be the best.
I don't have to get the girl.
I don't have to.
I don't have to.
I don't have.
I don't have to be.

My day of labor,
Spent ill at ease,
Is drawing to a close.
My sleeping neighbor,
The winter freeze,
Has begun to lift his nose.

The last dregs of sunlight
Seep weakly from the sky.
"Come comfort us," they seem to call,

"As we descend to die."

"How terribly conceited,"
I in my rest did say.
An old man grant the setting sun
The cosmic right of way?

My day of errand
Spent but to give
Amongst the earth and sod,
Draws not a fair end.
For I must live
To see the death of god.