When you take the hot iron of morning
And rub it along those fences between us
The trees dip down their branches
To listen a little bit more clearly.
I know that the notes you pick from
That wooden box of yours knows
All the hurt in the audience
But when you sang the blues
I looked for all the heartbreak I had
Gathered inside my chest
And let their broken pieces flutter
Away like some kind of winged messenger,
All the way to the ceiling of that room
You made into Harlem just for a night.