the sea inspecting your retreat
waves scraping splinters from the dock
salt, sand, sidewalk meet
faded neon bars require the night to be duller
i hope you understand the saxophone player
in his doorway of peeling color
a scarlet song drifting in the fog layer
i never liked cherries anyway
1 comment:
I have dubbed this Kenny-G.-inspired sax player: The Scene, as he "plays" the part of the sun in a solar system of desperate vagrants. I could hear the vaguely mystical redundancies of his agile fingerings from the balcony/porch of my upstairs apartment. It had always let me know that armageddon was not yet upon us, but was ever looming, whispering softly in the invisible misty distance; the bedtime story of a fallen mother. Always there; comforting and disturbing like the steady tick tock of a dripping faucet... a hallmark of entropy.
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