The brash riffs belch
out of the grey tin radio,
the bass comes alive and meets the blatant chords.
And the world begins to rain.

They walk hand in hand
swaying to an old jazz on the rain-streaked streets,
the tear-streaked streets
and the purple sky weeps to the swinging tenor,
and he says "Do you hear the music?"
and she says "No."

The air is smelling like the wilted moor.
He grabs the rusty handle
and he opens the crooked door.
Shining brown skin and ghostly moon eyes
with the skinny girl who looks like milk
and smells like milk.
She grabs the rusty handle
and the jazz grieves louder
and the bass is moaning
and the piano is tripping
and she closes the crooked door.

The rain howls and the streets cry
and the girl must go.
The pictures melt
from the coffee eyes
and the door opens
and the shadows fall
and the boy falls
and he is a shadow, a shadow of nothing.
The door shuts and he is gone
because she has gone
to where the dust spills
and the ground is red
and the buildings are black
and the sunshine is cold
and the eyes are bruises.

She goes there,
the white girl of spoiled milk.
And the bass rejoices
and the saxophones kiss
and the trumpets clap their metal hands
until the skin has rusted,
the brown has gone stale,
and the coffee is cold.
And the world is quiet.