The toggle from the hood on that guy’s rain jacket swayed in line with his lips.
The movement of his head, bouncing side to side with the pitch and fall of the train,
eyes closed tight, transforms it and him, into a saxophone mouthpiece and its master.
He blasts the notes keeping pace with Miles, John, some peer or another,
a grin as he relinquishes the mouthpiece momentarily,
then back, blast, in time and structured as man and object that they are clearly not.
I moved my line of sight as the song closed with a cliche and a clap.
I realigned to see my saxophonist, but he’d guy removed his coat,
and I’d lost that rhythm we were playing.