I can see you sitting outside the Reno

where the Mob’s tight hold makes dollars spin.

You are scuffling the dust, then homing in

whenever Lester launches his solo.

 

Or I see you breathe at the music's source

through a taped and battered alto. Through scale

after scale you soar, egotistical,

obsessive, chasing sounds no ears endorse.

 

Later on the hipsters hailed you –

Benedetti and a crew of fanatics

who, trailing wires in cellar bars, left mics

in place that hoarded every note you blew.

 

You had known from the start you'd never win,

even though your style became a language

for all. And Lester also shared that rage,

that anger that sticks like pigment in skin.