Saxophone mutes the fog in his lungs, mouthpiece clamped to a kiss.
Brass throats on a crying jag throb behind him. His breath slides down a pitch, pinches it like a bleeder.
The woman at the front table crosses
her legs to show the rips in her stockings
twitching like a cat’s tail. She loved
somebody once, and knows what it means
to be a smashed thing, her best parts held
to the spinning light and appraised.
The man squeezes his eyes and smokes
blue notes, burring and buzzing his lip.
All night, his train will run beside her bus.
Each one will stare into the shared dark,
willing the next stop to look like home.