the wind blows
outside
Miles’ trumpet blows
inside
and I am back
in Frank’s
with Alvin and Henry
drinking after hours
the bar’s doors locked
and we regular patrons
on weekend nights
sit sipping our drinks
inside
and it’s there
Miles on the tape deck
Alvin does some scat singing
Henry’s babyface smile
and there at 18
I think I own the world
or at least
this small part of it
in The Village
at 3am
with my friends
scotch on the rocks
poetry in our hearts
and the night
will never end
at least not until
morning
which always comes
much too soon
much too often
then
and now
in a world that’s changed
and hasn’t changed
and Miles’ trumpet
haunts now
more than before
or maybe my ears
listen better
to wind
to trumpet
to the world
changing me