He used to work on the railways goods yard
Fascinated by language shape sound heft
If you could have your life over no use
Crying over spilt bullet in the arm blood
Don’t know why he came to me tenor
After all this how one thought leads sax
To another in unstraight lines house junk
Everyone has to make a living alone
War he said was always a crime useless
Could have played in a dance band but left arm
But you can’t go dwelling on fought jazz
I think he once said in the desert music
Nothing else he wanted but to play no wife
His long life’s improvised broken solo
.
© Steve Waling