In the jazz bar
waiting for the band
to return from its break;
I’m sipping bourbon and my buddy
bitches about the warm beer.
The baseball team lost
“It’s the heat.” I tell my friend.
He wipes the dew-like sweat from
his beer bottle and groans,
“It’s the pitching.”
A breeze blows in,
dryer than a cotton ball
and just as light,
but we look toward the door
hopeful
nearly praying that it will
cool things down.
The piano player returns to the stage
with an icy drink in hand;
he’s cool.
He’s so fuckin’ cool with his
black sport coat with the thin lapels
and those baggy black pants and the
once-white shirt that’s now
kind of yellow unbuttoned
nearly down to his navel.
His girl leans close,
showing everyone her cleavage
and whispers something to him;
no doubt she’s saying,
‘Play me a love song.’
But there ain’t no love songs
in jazz.
It reminds me
of the blonde
with the wild hair and the
sultry green eyes
she didn’t understand jazz either.
But she understood
rhythm
and she understood baseball
she’d catch anything
I threw at her.
A shadow passes by the door
my head snaps
like my neck was hinged
at the shoulders.
A drunk stumbles in
all whiskey happy
and unaware that
he just took center stage.
His smile comes and goes
of its own accord
just like his balance.
He stumbles in a little further
for a second I think
he’s going to break into
a soft-shoe dance,
but he catches himself
on a bar stool and
realizes he’s found home.
Watching the drunk
I don’t see her when
she enters.
The trumpet player
sees her.
The drummer
sees her.
They are glued to her
as they reclaim the stage.
That dress
short and sexy,
too tight and yet,
not tight enough
blacker than the drunk’s memory
and just as intoxicating.
The bass player
trips over himself
watching her instead of
the stage.
The trumpeter and the drummer
laugh, dryly like the breeze
and take their places,
professional now.
No one
pays attention when the
first few notes
hit the air.
She has a music score
all her own.
I try to remember
her name.
Yeah, I knew her once.
knew her well.
Back seat of a car
kind of knowledge.
Before the days I had
a bed to sleep in.
No one would believe me.
She goes by
leaving a trail of
powerfully sweet perfume
that doesn’t fit with
the cigarette smoke and
the stale beer smell.
The band is playing
as she keeps
right on walking
out the back door.
The room spins
a little
and then we’re all back;
back with the band and
the drunk
the heat
our warm drinks
and the memories
of women we once knew.
The tempo
is soft, occasionally
punctuated by the
notes on the piano
or the trumpeter’s
improvisations.
The bass player is steady
keeping time
with the drummer
laying the foundation
for what the two others
are building jazz skyscrapers on.
I finish my bourbon
and wait for
another breeze
that won’t come for another hour.
”It’s the pitching and the coaching.”
My buddy says
from the other side
of his beer glass.
“Rachel.” I say aloud
Thinking about that night
when my body was lean
and strong
and she was sitting
on my lap moaning
into my mouth
that she loved me.
I never said it back.
And then the song
the band plays
starts to sound
like a love song.
The piano player’s girlfriend
beams, nice white, straight teeth
in his direction.
I look at my buddy
whose eyes reveal
a level of weariness
I’ve never seen before.
“You don’t know shit.” I say.
“Neither do you.” He grumbles and looks
around for the bartender
to bring another beer (cold beer!)
“You’re right.” I agree.
I tap my fingers on the table
slightly out of sync
with the love song.
Adding your comment:
) very niceeee...goood luck!!!
