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.