Long after
the ice had
melted
in his glass
ruining the
potency
of his drink,
he sat at the
keyboard,
staring, wishing
he could
write the
perfect poem.
Long after
the meeting
in past lives
on dusty devil
crossroads
where he had
rushed ahead
to show her,
he ached
in heart
with longing.
If he could
but put
into words
his desires
and passions,
if he could
write the perfect
poem,
he would
tell the world
of her beauty,
the beauty
of her soul.
He would
share the
laughter
that cried out
of him
in the stillness
each time
his mind went
to her,
each time
he wondered
what the
jazz mans daughter
could see
in the dirge
that was his song.
