Shadows.

A Friday night,
and souls are dead
from pressures of a ticking world.
But as they sit, their sorrow
buried in a glass,
the band takes up the stage.

The humming warm-up catches their attention
And they begin to play.
Bouncing to the jolly tap of bongos
the sax exuberantly wails,
on top of rasping trumpet,
running up and down the scales,
like Tigger on vacation.
The bass adds gravity
and soon the shadows of the week,
are hiding in the corner.

On and on they play,
mingling melodies daringly.
The sax and trumpet mimic,
Take the other’s lead,
Pushing the limits.
And the beat bounds on.

An audience shakes loose
And one by one
The shadows start to dance.