Big boy blue blows his horn
to please, and maybe squeeze the swinging black girl;
an artist of the trapeze at the circus of his heart.
Black girl stands outside the jointwaiting perhaps, to win a rich night with a passing genteel;
her hunger masked by beauty real.

Time finds itself lost in his sound
spilling out onto the pavement where she stands, wondering
who will pay for her meal in the morn.
They call this love a foggy evening;
with a lonesome trumpet blaring, in vain
to charm them clouds away.

are we through?
with our pretenses of being true,
in the face of madness
of a sea in which you cannot drown unless its time.
and time devours you, every floating minute
with slowness only time may conjure.
what if we escaped?
ran away to a place painted golden with the mirth of the sun.
would we be cowards then?
would you still think me a hero?
homer told of the prince fleeing beneath his own walls,
as young lochinvar dropped by to pick up his lover.
and the jack of hearts who always knew where he was headed,
played a twisted con,
upon the evil king who had himself a lonesome queen
to clean up the mess for both of them.
maybe her sentence mattered as little to her as it did to the jack.
they were heroes to me still,
lending me their sleepless nights;
even as they built their little tents in my heart,
and used my imagination
to build their lives within myself.
now they flee me, and their despair
in this time of weakness,
leaving me alone yet alive to pay my dues;
my only companion, a collection of songs
by a guitar player from half a century back.
'the trick', said lady goodman, 'was to not take it seriously;
if you didn't take it seriously, you never got hurt,
if you never got hurt, you always had fun,
maybe thats why she changed her name.
would you change yours for me?