Bushings in the wheel of passion we
suck to the rhythm of a paycheck,
make up the tune as we go along,
do what we must to keep the
oxygen coming in.
Our consequent yapping does nothing.
We stand in a landscape missing
countries of sienna, azure, cinnamon.
Digits hung upon the air,
I have no advice wouldn’t
offer it if I did just
swing that jaw till the
I will be hence,
atop the thirteenth yonder,
a ripple of quiet on my sleeve,
ash from a tender volcano.
From the collection Fields of Satchmo
Photo by MJV