Poetry

Today's sky
will not be missed
in a sorry shade 
of black and blue
when Arctic air
quietly smuggled in
from the East freezes    
our lifeless bodies
of snow into ice
bright figurines
and my sax
is exposed 
as my three oranges
eaten on my motorcycle
on the jazzy corner
for my timely gig,
yet a surreal poet is still
a Beat for life
in his runaway suit
when the same shade
shines in darkness
from a downtown club
on the window blinds
as a stranger offers
to help me
staring back at him
with a sponged fog
fills up the gas
both knowing the blahs
will not outlast
the skittering waters
on our faces
from snow kisses
and that spring 
may be early
when words again flow
and my sax
will again beat out
its underground notes
to play the Blues.