--for Dexter Gordon

Heaven's Lair? Or is there time yet?
Ah, that old time again.
Flagrant nights, when you're young
And determined to get laid at any cost.
I called several times, but there was no answer.
The soup's on. And I could use a drink right about now,
When the trumpet, long silent in the corner,
Steps up to sound its discordant alarm:
Time to go. Again, the slow turn coming down
To the stair landing and the descent into the steaming street below
All while the paint lofts its vision to the tin stars
Or was that grim news you bore to your sisters,
The planets and their assorted moons?
Pull up a chair to this white table,
And sit with me a while;
We'll blow loud our thoughts
To their inescapable conclusions:
The song of lovers
Who left this room years ago
To wander out into the light of the moon.
They return between the pearl white clouds;
They whisper between the notes.