It is night
        Shade has escaped from the corners of buildings
        And from the leaves of trees
        Congealing in blackness
        Too thick to be cut by street lights or neon

        Philadelphia's past midnight and still
        The heat holds close
        I can hardly carry it alone
        Walking empty downtown
        Until the phrases
        Saxophone
        But not a tune, a saying
        Drift light
        Lure another sense and bear it from me

        The player empties himself
        Into the hollow buildings and the streets
        There, in the recessed doorway
        He hunches low
        Reaching blindly through the dark
        But sure of his fingers
        Sure of his bright melodic song

Copyright © Cy Dillon, 2001.  All Rights Reserved.