The autumn day was dark

There would be rain and wind coming



On the city street someone

with another blind paper cup at his feet,

sheltered in the cold chapel of an unused doorway,

was playing alone on a saxophone

he had brought with him in a shopping bag

the classics of improvisation

                                    the melodies

the riffs of his tradition

                   the changes

                                    the great tunes

handed down again just now by him



And in the soft wind, the certainty of rain,

who stopped for a moment to listen and pitched

his own voice to the blue note

and a few coins into the cup?