At thirty in Soho
a winter wind grabs
the arm that I make
my moves on
when I play sax,
and the love
of three oranges I carry
are almost devoured
on my motorcycle
when it stalls
by a rain storm
on the jazz corner
for my midnight gig,
yet a poet is still
walking his Beat for life
in his runaway suit
searching for help
in an apex of light
near his city’s
downtown club
unable to drive,
with no more gas,
yet he fixes on his riffs
as tiny snow flakes
hug the window blinds
at the pub’s opening,
I hear a sped up recording
of a Coltrane tape,
a stranger out of nowhere
with a cool French accent
sees me stuck,
supplies my gas
knowing these temporary
wintry blues and blahs
will not outlast
my brief loss
of mental direction
as I invite this snappy guy
to my underground gig
knowing smooth jazz
will soon beat out notes
from my body heat
hotly simmering
inside my jacket
to play new improvisations.