John Grey

Music cooking,
he warmed up,
lips to horn,
breaths of brass,
rhythm section
stepped aside
to cut him space,
wind and fingers,
skill-spruced melody
as sweet as Jerome Kern
until hijacked by deep blues,
wail of pain,
notes so sweaty
crowd could wipe them
from their foreheads,
blood on buttons,
grime on neck,
mouth-pipe caked with spit,
tune never had a chance,
not up against the years
he’s lived.