You **** the socks; listen
To the radio; look
At the hole slowly get

Smaller and smaller. Jazz
From some far off station;
A tune you recognize,

Your foot taps up and down
To the beat. You smile; nod
Your head; let your deep thoughts

Slowly unravel like
A flower. Was that Bud
Powell? You ask, slipping the

Needle through the dark black
Material, easing
The thread through. But where was

Jack? Late. Usually he
Was home by now. You pause
Your fingers; stare at the

Needle; listen for sounds
Other than the jazz. Jack
Said he would be here his

Usual time, you tell
Yourself, looking at the
Clock on the wall. Stillness

And only Bud playing
In the background to your
Thoughts. Maybe he’s had an

Accident? Perhaps he’s
Been robbed of his wage? So
Terrible these days, the streets.

Your thoughts run amok like
Mischievous children.
You stare at the sock on

Your hand. Jack’s sock. **** these
For me, he had asked that
Morning. You push the small

Needle through again, pull
It out and slowly ease
It towards you. Maybe

He’s been caught in traffic
Or the train is late or…
Is that the door? You put

Down the sock and go to
The door. Two policemen stand
There; Bud plays soft in the

Background of the room; your
Feet no longer tap; your
Head sinks to your breast; far

Off some news is about
To break like a tidal
Wave against the calm coast

Of your life and drown you
In the great sea of grief.