Sweet notes waft past in the chilly wind.

I had no choice but to change course. To surrender to its sweet invitation.

So there I was guided down the steps

and into the underground concert hall.  

There he was resplendent in a black jaded suit,

black tie, dark glasses.

Cultured notes floating effortlessly,

echoing against the cold tunnel.

I stood in awe. Admiring the poetic grace as his fingers caressed

his golden asset. His only possession.

Every bar told a story. This is his moment of glory.

The soul of sax. The spirit of freedom.

A once empty hat on the cold tiles tinkles with coins

as they rain from the heavens.

Changing lives. His and mine.