Mark Dixon Blues In C Minor When the medics closed their tackle box doused the red lights that said it and he turned away Cops lurking nearby moved in with yellow tape intruded with notebooks flashbulbs nub of chalk tracing his friend's outline in the street he shoved his way back home climbed the stairs In his bedroom latches on his saxophone case snapped like brass switchblades in the dark The reed was crisp and wailed smooth and polished till even the cops looked up to his window Sprawling low notes a mournful cry that rose and smoked from the bell of the horn Gentle high notes luminous tight and pretty for his friend He closed his eyes dug deep and found some more wild unsettled riffs

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