Sunday Night Game

It was one of those nights
When the weather's mood
Matched mine.

There were leaves on the ground.
I wanted to pick up leaves like words.
I wanted to pick up words like leaves.
And petals off my nose.

It was a strange day,
The day the amateur found romance
In his fingers.

The headphones played jazz.
Take me to
The real thing
And I'll play with you too.

And then
Hey, lady! Come inside!
Live jazz, no cover!
The famous Butch Warren
On the bass tonight
For you.

Butch ate stale soup
Outside
On a cold iron chair
Waiting his turn.

He gave me a grunt
Stale like his soup
And I said
Nice to meet you
Famous jazz man.

And I wanted to say
You play your game
I play mine.
Okay?

And he said
You can't just spew
Up onto a page.
Not without at least
A little stir.

So I said
Let me try
This writing thing.
And bring me one
Martini.

Plus one lime,
Minus one cherry.

I wanted snow on the leaves and snow on the words,
In my hair and on my clothes.
I wanted a nice pen.

The trumpet player sat at the bar
Pretending to play guitar.
Why does he lie?

Hey! No more jazz, trumpet player?
Hey! Don't leave me to
Play all alone.

There were three roses in the window
And stained glass in frames.
And the poem would be
A sad pile of leaves.

Dip out, now
Run away!
Leave the playing to the
Masters
Lady.

One martini
With water on the side?
Please!
And mix me a
Pile of leaves.

The glass made
A four-ring shadow on
My polyester tablecloth.
Dance with
Me, shadow!

Oh, the sad dialogue
Of romantic fingers.
Minus money,
Plus pathetic.

The trumpet player's a drummer now.
Delusion virus?
It was just an experiment!

Too much money.
Too many trees.
Too much thinking.
It pollutes the leaves.

It was a bad pen.
So bye bye jazz.

Good night in the city.
Good night to the city.
Don't be courageous.
Forget those sad romantic fingers.