Saxophone smooth in a three-piece suit
enters Blue - cool and suave, disdainful
to those of duller class - the crass
beiges and browns seen down the street
and around the town.
Electric, Blue glides bar-ward, in charge
and smug with martini charm - rhythmic
in conversation, his words slide
like the saxophone ride he came in on.
Red can't leave him alone.
He presses convivial keys, playing
the spectrum with a smug smile -
It's an old game with new names
and people to mix with. He smirks
his way to Ebony.
'How have you been?' and all that jazz,
just the casual quips and usual digs
of the typically hip, tripping
over tongues and each others' ego.
'Hey, gotta run'
Over to Green, and the game is on:
Name drops, topic-hops, the usual
shoptalk of performers at play -
Plucked strings sing a telling tune.
Green leaves with Envy.
Saxophone smooth in his three-piece suit,
Blue waves like the pacific ocean, breaks
the last ice and serenades the senses
with a warm smile directed at the party.