Of Jazz and Clouds

One damp morning, before the egg of Dawn Cracked,

Stood a man with dark rings under his eyes.

And as his trumpet he began to unpack,

The Sun melted over the Chicago Skies

But before he could blare a note of his jazz

The city was up, and running, and loud,

And the buses were fast and so were the cabs

And replaced was the moon, by the trace of a cloud.