it was jazz.
it was love.

on the streets, after dark,
and underneath the lights
of the city where the
stars were meant to shine,
but were hidden between

smog and smoke,
there was a note,
a key, a lyric,
and a voice.

there was love found
on this corner,
and there was compassion
in the music.

I heard him sing;
a raspy voice,
calloused hands
skillfully playing guitar,
with a mind
of dedication and more.

he called it jazz.

I didn’t think it was.
but I called it lovely, all the same.