‘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