the musician and his writer

*the musician and his writer*

what is it that's different today.
tell me what is out of place-
is it my face?
well there must be something in it
if i am still in your good grace.

you spent the morning settling affairs,
(i spent mine dreaming of a french soldier adorned with a Croix de guerre)
and then you played your saxophone.
smooth as the morning itself,
and i raised my coffee to your good health.

when he plays it makes the angels shout out loud;
they bring us linings from their clouds.
and since angels are partial to dark liquor,
i pour it in a bowl and watch them drink.

the ribbon of the typewriter whines
while i pound pound pound-
i am pounding the worries out.

i can say so much without a single sound-
come with me. let's explore downtown.bring
your saxophone. i'll wear your hat and you
wear my scarf. we can make our way
around the park with my arm through yours
and i'll scatter our pages on the ground.

my sins?

or yours.