The man in Black played it well,

his reserved trilby poked down

to just above his shadow laden eyes

and his shirt unruffled, starched stiff on the collars

but underneath the skin ripples,

quivers with excited tones as each step of the saxophone

is mastered and controlled to pitch and the old man

sitting in the corner, the chair, slightly askew,

his hunched over frame

lets go finally of a regretful tear

of Time misplaced and his old black face

shows a memory in his eyes of a place where