there are the rhythmic blues
that fall down the streets
and fly along the canals
of the city

the tunes flavor the air
with the beginnings of
crisp evenings
and smoking whisky

as the rich clip the ends
of their cigars
and the poor
can only tap their feet
to the song

the sun sets just beyond
a lavender and navy horizon,
streaking the air
with the essence
of what night
overtakes us all

we nod our heads
to the soft clashing of cymbals
and nod off 
to the hum of a guitar
like the buzzing of a gentler
hive of bees

there is a singer
upon a wide stage
though not as wide 
as it may seem at first

he has a soft jaw
but a tall nose
and defined cheekbones
and holds his microphone
so it can smell the
alcohol that
perfumes his breath

and he sings
he sings of a muse
with dazzling eyes
and
hands that fit
ever so perfectly

"in mine"

my dear,
he sings for you

and i'd belt
the same blues 
over the rooftops
of some busy metropolitan
so that it echoes through the Himalayas
and rebounds

as a whisper
that lulls you to sleep

- for my sunshine.