close to heaven

the man
with the black
clarinet
red faced,
his goatee
dripping
with sweat
taps his feet,
squints his
blue eyes
into the spot
light, he
doesn't care
that there
are six people
there, neither
does the drummer
and bass player.
each happy
in what he does,
ignoring the sparse
crowd who
are checking
their watches
or phones,
others staring
numbly into
laminated menus.
it doesn't matter.
there is one
man, up front,
immersed in
the music, as
close to heaven
as he can get
without dying.
they play for
him.