2002 Eric C. Lind

Imagine a dude with his back and one
foot against a lamppost,
with some sort of disfashionate hat, and that amber light shining down
on some lonely street corner.

His saxophone he's playing to the world where no one
can hear him and everyone can listen, in some melancholy cheer that speaks
of unanswered secrets that dance like butter on
a hot skillet.

A collage of teary notes and raucous sentiment:
the banner for his kingdom.
He reaches into the base of his
soul from his worn and tattered
shoes to propagate the beauty he
feels around him in a


before heading to some beat up old late night eatery
for fried chicken
and black coffee.

Piercing cascading tones and gentle reprises
cradle the man's attached instrumental voice into

the sanctity of the stars.

Then quiet.

One more drag of that Turkish and domestic blended spirit.

The crickets scream in his ear hoping for more.