With hands weathered
and soul tethered
Jazz Man plays a sorrowful tune.
The flash of fingers
guide pain that lingers
visible as a shrouded moon.
Speedy knuckles
let loose chuckles
of the tired and weary loon.
The band surrounds him,
memory hounds him,
like bugs croaking long days in June.

Inspiration
and narration
drip sharply from familiar breaks.
His solo, it swings
from so many strings,
each attached to enduring aches.
Final phrases
briskly pace his
calls across lucid and lonely lakes.
And though what he plays
could be stretched for days,
New York minutes are all he takes.