A BEAT REPORTER

In a spurt of first light
my alto sax waits for me
at the pawn shop
near the Beacon Chambers loft,
this Beat reporter in doldrums
of the summer heat
composes a sonata
still wanting to believe in art
and not in commercialism
no matter that Andy profited
from Campbell's soup cans,
here in a back alley
on an August dog watch day
blowing riffs
wishing I didn't lose
my Spanish poncho at L.A.X.
fed up with travel cases
or getttig lost on the highways
over easy streets
picking up living roses
for my friend
named for Marilyn Monroe
by a hallway of the club
at dusk among musicians
who pack me with gossip
when all I wish for
is to be an instrument of love.