MUSIC IN THE STREET
H. W. Bryce
The lonely saxophone wails
Its lonely notes
Up the street and out of sight
And draws me there.
He play all day, he plays all night,
He haunts my mind
Of Yesterday and there he sits,
Upon the curb.
I followed the sound, pulled
Along by each note.
—
A long and lean black man sitting on the curb
Blowing melancholy memories through his soul,
His battered, sexy saxophone his instrument of love.
And so I staggered as if in love, and as
I stayed my tears of honour to his music,
That long and lean old black man rose
Slowly to his feet and, still haunting the
Phantoms of his past, he slowly sauntered
Up the street I had just come down, dropping
blue notes on the pavement like pearls
of wisdom, and the beauty of his tune,
the story of his blues-laden life, hung
like a cloud and drifted along behind him,
with me, crying with the bauty of
music. And Yesterday hangs in the air.
— —
