Thinking about Carl.
He makes me so sad
smoking cigarettes outside
the coffeeshop window alone
walking down the street
with his newspapers, alone
carring his kitty litter
home, alone.
Seeing his gray backpack
and the lonely gray hairs
on his black face
makes me sad.
Mike took me by his place once
to drop off his bow
'cause he'd forgotten it
at rehearsal.
Somehow the shaded building
looming tall
with bars on the windows
and the mailboxes in the lobby,
their nameplates marked
by temporary slips of paper
"Parker, 413... Armstrong, 302... Davis, 224",
somehow this all fit,
and I felt a hole open up
in my guts
for him.
Passing him now in the street,
or in line at the coffee shop,
or watching him at the jazz joints,
that hole opens up
a little wider
and it aches.
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