They spoke jazz
the words trickled from their tongues
like magic
they weren't rich
or famous
or connected
but they were **** good people
tongues like metronomes
they spoke in flashes of music
music music
not just sounds layered
atop other sounds
but soul and heart and fire and passions,
aching sadness
heartbroken longing
and the taste of danger
and ***
they were broke
scratching and hustling
for nickels and dimes
and forty ounces of freedom,
if they save up long enough
they can score a nickel bag
but they never do
and they still somehow get their hands on the stuff
malt liquor hangovers
wake them in the morning
and they smoke loosies
given to them by the over-privileged college kids
and their nice clothes
and undeserved smiles
they are the rat pack
hearts beating to the sounds of saxophones
and in my book
they're alright