Baggy khaki chinos, hands in pockets, and a tank top undershirt. Brown leather shoes, scuffed and scraped, have seen better days. Tan socks with all the elastic blown rumpled down low. Third day tousled bedroom hair and whiskers of black and grey, scattered red. Bleary-eyed shuffling down the sidewalk, muttering about fortunes misplaced. Where have they gotten off to? Sweat at the top of the back of your neck says the muggy late morning will become a sweltering afternoon. Better seek shelter. Better watch where you're going. Weren't there cigarettes last night? Have they all gone up in smoke? Mumbling, not looking, off the curb and into and across the street. Smell of coffee from some open shop door. Light traffic in the warming city routine, the threat of lunchtime pedestrians looming on the clock hands high overhead in the church tower. Birds pass through building walls, though surely not. It's a play of light and hangover eyes, red and throbbing. Somewhere a car horn blares far away, a distant rage swallowed by the urban vacuum. She wasn't there this morning. They were separated in the night. Enough spare change for coffee and then maybe you'll try to remember where it all went wrong. Might be hot rains in the evening, sizzling and steaming in another night. This is jazz life, my friend. This is where the saxophone kicks in.
Hello, friends. How are you today?