The low smoky notes of the tenors soft purr,
On a bridge in the evening, the night seems to stir,
The saxophone growls, and then rasps out a note,
The tune moves towards heaven, drifts skyward to float.
The man with the horn, tilts his head and half smiles,
He knows his horn, its tone and its style,
Quite like a pet, he clutches it tight,
His "Blues in B-flat" envelops the night.
His case lies at his feet, welcoming needed change,
While he plays high to low, testing his range,
Again a slight grin creases his coarse face,
As a couple drops quarters in his open case.
His street corner is silent, save for his moaning sound,
Just he and his sax, and a melody profound,
He seems to wink, though his eyes never move,
Because he and his sax have nothing to prove.