‘Round Daylight

Under a mound of dirt you lay
I imagine a saxophone
Playing ‘Round Midnight
Maple trees line the road
Their shade saved for the living
While you lay beneath the blazing sun

Under a mound of dirt you lay
On the winds float the notes
Of the sensual Yolanda Anas
Blue pinstripes and a pinky ring
Which direction do your feet point?
It would matter to you

Under a mound of dirt you lay
Not even a butterfly stops to rest
Upon white stones churned up
To make space for your withered presence
Whose eager fingertips once thrummed tabletops
To the tune of The Wind Song

Conversation has ended
Quiet disquiets
Not even a vase of spent flowers
There ought to be a combo
The rumble of the subway, sirens and horns blaring
Street lights and summer fog on the long drive home

The music has stopped
There is no one here
Save the groundsman who clips the grass short
And leads me to you
Right at the 19th Maple tree, stop a few paces short of the road
You will find him, buried under a mound of dirt

You should not be stretched out in Paramus
But scattered in Montreux, Newport and Paris
On the sidewalks outside Birdland, Dizzy’s, the Blue Note
All you ever wanted was good company
A nice lunch, a glass of wine and a few tunes
There is no one here except you

Slumbering in a field of grass