Banked Notes

I listen to the greats as rent ticks by

unpaid another week,

this elasticity of time and money an uneasy hat

fitting too well from use.

it's mostly jazz; the border music

of trombones, and hours black

as smoked mirrors, that I prefer to the sound

of slagging commissions bouncing on the down turned beat.

my shadow career tails me,

the trail of time cards littering an alley

like song sheets blown from a briefcase

minutes before a concert.

an instrument of His peace

holds time still for a stanza;

we whistle, work,

while sane people play their dues.