Round About Midnight, Greg Santos

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I ask him if he likes jazz
and he purrs.



This night
I am on edge.

The trumpets of
my thoughts bleating.

Somewhere, a saxophone
wails slowly.

The headlights of a car,
Blinking a melancholy tune.

I think of pressing keys,
a drink to pass the time.

The woodwinds howl,
thoughts squirm.

My footsteps click,
a repetition of sound.

An abrupt clang in the alley,
A clattering, a din.

I like jazz, I say out loud.
Did you hear that?

A purring in my mind.
Cool cat, cool as a cucumber.

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