When the Saxophone Moans

Melancholy fills the wine glass, while despair
hogs the seats around me. He is playing Mangione
like a broken-heart’s groan.

The saxophone moans, its cry lingering
filling me up with notes, drifting high,
low, then back as I drink the wine.

If I were the saxophone, agile fingers
would caress me, echoing ripples of rhythm
across my length

And I would not let go of passionate lips
blowing solitude away from me
until the sax and I groan as one.

Instead, I sit here with the wailing tunes
listening to a lady bawl her lines
as if they were mine.