Mark Dixon
Blues In C Minor

When the medics
closed their tackle box
doused the red lights
that said it
and he turned away

Cops lurking nearby
moved in with yellow tape
intruded with notebooks
nub of chalk
tracing his friend's outline
in the street
he shoved his way back home
climbed the stairs

In his bedroom
latches on his saxophone case
snapped like brass switchblades
in the dark

The reed was crisp and wailed
smooth and polished
till even the cops
looked up to his window

Sprawling low notes
a mournful cry
that rose and smoked
from the bell of the horn

Gentle high notes
tight and pretty for his friend

He closed his eyes
dug deep and found some more
unsettled riffs