In a puddle of light,

the drummer soft-strokes the skins

like a cheek. Delinquent notes jitter

above the piano and the singer bends

them against a grid of accidentals,

slip-sliding scales. A glissando of notes

slides to the floor.

A man looks up--

there is always someone to burn a hole

in the night. He eyes the singer’s wet throat,

that flute of foregone conclusions.

There is always someone.

Possibilities slither across the silver smoke

and before the sax can blow

the bad news out of all proportion,

a pin drops through it and the room stills,

suddenly straddled by desire.