Sunday, August 02, 2009

Somewhere outside your window



Someone is playing Soul Finger, live . . . it’s been so long but still the music touches softly the chords of the heart. Outside a jazz bar the wind whispers secrets to the trees and birds keep chirping, just before the church bell rings; it’s past ten now and the birds are resting. Ten o’clock outside a jazz bar the street lights light up the pavement and the door knob is filled with fingerprints and moisturizing hand lotion . . . glass bottles land in the recycling bin, the waiter opens the squeaky back door, I better move on. My shadow and I, we have a home, a place to call home . . . good night birds

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