Saxophone
The cellar is his bleak repose,
in concert with the cockroaches and flies,
it's here he wipes his runny nose,
toils the day long, sunshine tries,
insinuates through rough and crumbled boards.
The colour of his skin constricts,
the bottom of the pile, his heritage affords
no more, the atmosphere restricts
his breath. It leans against the wall,
his tarnished, dusty saxophone,
a measure of the time when he stood tall,
cadenzas, and his free and strident tone.
(Note: written as if in the 1940's)
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2009
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