I walked a lonely street of diners and drunkards and nickel & dime bed sheet divas. I stopped at an all night pawn shop where an old saxophone shone for me in the window like a full moon. For a wanting novice $25 seemed affordable; not much more than an Underwood typewriter or an old Dictaphone recorder. Under a street light I played the bought horn, at first barely freeing musical sounds. Finally the reluctant sax gave way to fitful, atonal notes that half-filled the air. Hash and egg patrons encircled me. A drunkard lay at my feet. More than one nickel & dime diva hiked her skirt above her knees. I played for the moment, my one shot at show biz. But no agents saw me. No contracts were drawn. No acclaim was spoken, except from the lips of nameless men and women who heard their sax man play for them on a lonely street.