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.
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2016
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment