Blue

They pound the street,

Together,

The rain and the black men,

In black glasses and cream hats,

They carry the music in their pockets,

In their shoes,

It is on their eyelids when they close,

And it is in the room when they open the door,

Adding its own flavor to the smoke that hovers,

Around the tables and instruments.

Calloused hands,

Trained fingers take hold,

Souls rise above their hosts,

Invisible unless you know the trick:

In the reflections inside the beads of sweat on the dance floor,

The Passions twist and swirl and blaze.

Do you see?