in a dark grey room from a blue hall a jazz crib
a museum behind double doors and heavy goldilocks
a safe place made safer by silence save for the sound of that sweeping
medicine melody from hi-fi turntables harmonious bells
high-pitched angels and dance groove and beat and spice
hammering out agressions on a harpsicord hidden in the hoard
telecaster lane he called it , its his name his sink his sofa
within the walls of sound and secret streets around it
once in a while only though
he has no civil need
not that you'd know
youd never meet him with the way he sees it
there are bigger things inside