B.Z. Niditch- A Poem

IN SOHO

In Soho tonight
a winter wind grabs
the arm that I make
my moves on
when I play sax,
and the love
of three orange I carry
on my motorcycle
are almost murdered
by a rain storm
on the jazz corner
for my midnight gig,
yet a surreal poet is still
walking the Beat for life
in his runaway suit
hiding in an apex of light
near his city's downtown club
unable to drive,
with no more gas,
yet he fixes on his riffs
moving as tiny snow flakes
hugging the window blinds
at the pub's opening
hearing a sped up recording
of a Coltrane tape,
a stranger out of nowhere
with a cool French accent
sees me stuck,
supplies my gas
knowing these temporary
blues and blahs
will not outlast
my poisonous
brief loss
of mental direction
as I invite this snappy guy
to my underground gig
knowing jazz riffs
will soon beat out notes
from my body heat
hotly simmering
inside my jacket
to play improvisations.