I’ve always wanted to

play the saxophone

like the man on the corner,

with passion and a little

sway in my hips.

He plays downtown,

resting his back against hotel

walls, head laid on shrubbery.

His saxophone reflects neon

open signs and street lamps.

I think his lips must get sore.

I think his lungs must hurt

from blowing all that air,

all that music that echoes

off wrought-iron balconies