there are the rhythmic blues
that fall down the streets
and fly along the canals
of the city
the tunes flavor the air
with the beginnings of
crisp evenings
and smoking whisky
as the rich clip the ends
of their cigars
and the poor
can only tap their feet
to the song
the sun sets just beyond
a lavender and navy horizon,
streaking the air
with the essence
of what night
overtakes us all
we nod our heads
to the soft clashing of cymbals
and nod off
to the hum of a guitar
like the buzzing of a gentler
hive of bees
there is a singer
upon a wide stage
though not as wide
as it may seem at first
he has a soft jaw
but a tall nose
and defined cheekbones
and holds his microphone
so it can smell the
alcohol that
perfumes his breath
and he sings
he sings of a muse
with dazzling eyes
and
hands that fit
ever so perfectly
"in mine"
my dear,
he sings for you
and i'd belt
the same blues
over the rooftops
of some busy metropolitan
so that it echoes through the Himalayas
and rebounds
as a whisper
that lulls you to sleep
- for my sunshine.
