hot day summertime
new york city tunes
back windows wide
no breeze coming in
none even due
ubiquitous din
anonymous kin
kids shrieking,
people talking
any sense in their mingled squawking
i hear none of 
but  take it all in
the blare of sirens,
barking dogs and voices
jet planes screaming up above
vexatious unidentifiable noises
from numerous neighbors without love
honking horns of crowded buses
old men watching tv in bed
their air-conditioners roaring
all going round in my head
mixing with my muggy thoughts
slouching with my feet up
on the dirty window sill
no shirt, short pants
lookin at my toes
too hot to move
let alone dance
just hangin
at home
a saxophonist
sitting on his hot window ledge
plays into the steaming stale staccato air
legato melodies elegantly streaming
graciously coursing and flowing
inspired by some affair
of long ago
the day, the heat
the girl upstairs
the night before
who knows
how he
so fair, so coolly
crooning close into
the clamors of the city
a timbre of bright optimistic grace
changing the nervous time and pace
enveloping and embracing each sound
competing on its own
each cab
each car
each seeking beeping telephone
and all sad feelings that arise
from each loveless night spent alone
or with some one you didn't want to be with
altering the temper and mood of the chatter
of the wayward noise and incompatible clatter
transforming all into poetic parameter
of a fine and subtle ethereal matter
the saxophonist composing the poem
counterpoint and harmonic variation
his musical compassion taking hold
of children screaming soprano in the streets
carpenters pounding percussive beats
jackhammers answering allegro basso
ambulance sirens passionate falsetto
honking horns pick up the pace
underground subways resonate
perfect harmony and tempo
to a jet plane's carrooning solo
across the melodious sky
this cool sax interleaving
together into musical sensation
every audible rampant vibration
transmuted into magical inflection
chaotic cacaphony now holy perfection
a multi-dimensional metropolitan intermezzo
sitting on his window ledge
relating everything effortlessly to me
the sense of his music saying, i am he
the saxaphonist in the mystical center
at the hub of all things
around which the outpouring, sweltering island
revolves and willingly sings