He thought it was a clarinet. Distance
fooled him again. Too low, he thought, oboe,
not bassoon. Who cares. A note from a slow
car passing, but the jazz was nice. He chanced
to hear it. Sun pours down like honey, slants
through low clouds. Weather gathers. What’s a glow
now will be a storm soon. Indoors. He knows
he should find shelter. His shoes are thinner
than newsprint and his Goodwill-box pants
will cling to his sorry knees. They’ll knock like
castanets. They’ll miss the beat. His tin ear
tells him that music has driven off. Gone
with that ragtop. Time to lift up his bike,
ride to Glide. On the way, he’ll sing a song.