Posed like the cool hand man, the sax man swings jazz,
playing round the city streets at night.
In search of the real thing, don't he know it's gone - - -
far out of sight.
Like the bane of the taps of a blind man's cane
the sax trills tap the glass down avenues past
in a search all on its syncopated way.
Inside voyeurs packed tight,
****** of souls search the elusive night.
In a dream scape vision bathed in neon blurred light.
Intoxicating lipstick spread, the tender trap distracts.
A mirage of the real thing beguiles.  Tap tap tap - - -
Lost loves' lonesome embrace mimics a charade duet.
Plays the sax man at night. Neophyte,
have you found the real thing yet?

P. Suess