The Tenor man

Pottering around the stage,

a hyperactive ancient in his own backyard -

independent of the band it seems.

Disrhythmic shuffling of ashtray,

beer, a pack of cigarettes,

adjusting microphones,

then in the middle eight

he draws, exhales, and catches breath,

stoops forward to the mouthpiece

and blows,

it a tumbling counterpoint,

scales soaring from his horn.

The melody flows

until the break,

and then he shoulders arms,

a truce between the music and his ailing lungs.

Between choruses he sits apart

to light another cigarette,

a sideman counting out the bars

until he rises for the coda -

this Lazarus of swing.