I snap a shot of the gray morning air.
Cold wind is pulling the knots from my hair.
He casts a line where the river meets stone.
Two different worlds and we both feel alone.
Deep in the basement the saxophone plays.
High on the shoreline the silver mist sways.
Hold to the rhythm and hold to the light.
We are the ghosts of a Chicago night.
He wears a sweater of heavy wool knit.
The match in his hand is a small golden lit.
I watch through the lens of a cheap plastic frame.
Searching for something that doesn't have name.
Deep in the basement the saxophone plays.
High on the shoreline the silver mist sways.
Hold to the rhythm and hold to the light.
We are the ghosts of a Chicago night.
The bass notes are thumping beneath the concrete.
Vibrating slow through the soles of my feet.
He pulls a lure from the dark oily blue.
Wait for the moment the picture rings true.
Deep in the basement the saxophone plays.
High on the shoreline the silver mist sways.
Hold to the rhythm and hold to the light.
We are the ghosts of a Chicago night.
The city is humming a low steady drone.
A long distance signal on a dead telephone.
He checks the horizon and straightens his cap.
The map in my pocket is a colorful trap.
Sinking down low where the brass notes collide.
Rising up high where the river will glide.
One kind of quiet and one kind of loud.
One lonely sailor and one drifting cloud.
I pack up my bag as the buses roll by.
A streak of pale yellow across the flat sky.
He reels in the water and smiles at the shore.
We don't need to speak to know there is more.
Deep in the basement the saxophone plays.
High on the shoreline the silver mist sways.
Hold to the rhythm and hold to the light.
We are the ghosts of a Chicago night.
Silver line, silver lake.
Snap the shot before it breaks.
Chicago night.
