blues man, man of soul,
writhing in my forearms.
a heart too calloused to pump,
eyes too full, fading to chalk.
thin wooden fingers, whining joints,
sagging biceps splotched with bleach,
a broom mustache solid in sweat.
it hurts, blues man, to feel you fade.

your sax bleat against the sidewalk,
the dry reed snapping on impact.
your canned bank spilling nickels into the storm drain.
i felt your shattered muscles shiver against my chest,
your spine spasming back and forth, pounding against your lungs,
blocked by all the **** you’ve eaten in your seven or so decades.

your shoulders sagged and your chin wilted to your wheezing heart.
i laid you down against the wall of Mother’s and searched for a payphone.
looking back, you seemed like an old black Atlas,
i stuck a few quarters in and yelled at an answering machine for four infinite minutes.
looking back, i saw people looking anywhere but your face,
dropping change in your saxophone case.
your fingertips stopped shaking,
and with it, my old earth sank into space,
and you ****** me into a new one.
it hurts here, blues man, man of soul.
it hurts here, and everyone’s got a rasp in their voice.