Barbara Pease

Day's End

A tenor sax cries inthe shadows below.
A simple light marks the place
where a musician plays alone.
I listen from my fire escape.

The arresting melody describes a life
with sweet intensity stoked by strife.
Hardened in the sultry streets,
it speaks of shared moments --
      of memories lost between the sheets.

Enchanted I listen
from shadows that thicken,
my head and shoulder against the wall --
    my seat the metal stair,
    the alley my concert hall.
Waining light plays with my hair.
The story he shares -- the story is my own.