there was a poor old man
who came in the wrong world
he existed as everyone else
in the world of public gardens
and bars and commercial cities.
because he was the sound of your violin
and he was the ink of your typewriter
and he was the color of your drawings and he was your secret lover.
but he wanted to be sure
that he was living elsewhere
behind paintings with Florentines
behind pages of books with sal paradise
behind discs of phonograph
with the endless complaints of Jazz.
because he was the sound of your violin
and he was the ink of your typewriter
and he was the color of your drawings
and he was your secret lover.