I miss putting my hands all over you.
I miss putting my lips on your parts
And when I blow
You you let out the sweetest sounds.
Your curves are just perfect.
Even the way your body glistens in the light is beautiful.
There isn’t any others like you.

You are broken now.
Many years of neglect.
You’re drying up and it’s my fault.
You don’t hold up like you used to.

I’ll love you again
And I will fix you.

I miss you
My sweet little saxophone ❤️

Hands in my pockets
with a jazzed overtone
Strolling a swagger

I've come to love

and know
the color blue to mean
not a Blue Monday
Blue Note or joke
and don't much care to sing the Blues

or for that matter
give them
because truth be told
most of the time

I want to caucus
with those
pumping and stumping
for a Blue Hawaii
or the warm blue waters

pickling poetically
the clam shell white bottom

of Palancar Reef

Whit Howland © 2019

Honey-flowing rivulets of jazz-beaten syncope,
Trumpets blowing smoke across the room,
‘Curveball’ Sammy hustles bass behind the bar,
Snares his songbird in a played back loop.

Harlem shufflers work the floor, breaking safe,
Clave rhythm scufflers with a New York twist,
Black keys write with borrowed brass on iv’ry walls,
Pick the lock on a swelt’ring southern riff.