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.