Old friend

I met a saxophonist
Teeth like the old brass
She once blew
Dull, battered, dirty and lost.
Bewildered in well made rags
At the bus station
She begged

With time to spare
To listen and talk of nowhere
And where the roads lead
To walk local streets
And remind her of the tomorrows
She still has.

However long December runs
Some August dawns are yet to come
Of tomorrows planned when we were young
There will be some,
The simple ones.

I met a saxophonist
I gave her what change I had
She bought me a coffee.