Smoke rolls
in grey-white clouds
over gin-soaked tables
and past wide-eyed patrons
listening to the horn player
steppin’ up to solo.
The women drink gin
and the men swill whiskey,
each striking a
distinctive pose
like refugees from an
unwritten Fitzgerald story.
Cigarette holders
held at proper angles,
eye-liner and rouge
as heavy as the drummers beat.
The men
curse their starched collars
and grit their teeth
at the way the ladies
eye the horn player
with such unbridled lust.
These thin,
deathly serious boys;
young,
black men
with passion
flowing from their
instruments
are the love
and the hate
of the room.
Music so sublime,
so candy-apple sweet,
yet simmering
with vinegar,
spills into the
soul and washes
blue electric
over the heart.
This melody is intoxicating
as a woman’s naked body
and as full as a
rich man’s ego;
yet it knows no bounds.
Each song
is a new adventure;
as open as the western plains
and as colorful
as a Georgia swamp.
The piano player
plays left-hand blues
while the bass man
pulls his rhythm
from the down-side
of the Devil’s basement.
Smoke curls around
the drummer’s thick,
angry mouth;
eyes half-closed
he holds the electricity
of the room tight
like Thor wielding
thunder in firm command.
The men at the bar
talk in low,
polished whispers
afraid to disturb the
river of sound
they are swimming in.
They might drown
if they speak to loudly
or, worse yet,
they might be
heard.
A dapper man
in tie and tails
leans in close to his
young ingénue
whose pale blue eyes
are fixed on the
thick, snake-like
outline in the
horn players slacks.
The man whispers,
but she does not hear;
and he knows
it’s not just the man
it is the vibration
running through the room;
the ground-swelling
orgasm that
speaks of
sex
and love
and nights without end;
it is the music
itself.
He draws heavily
on his cigar
and leans back
hoping that
she, like the pearls
that adorn her neck,
is still his.
At a nearby table
two women
exchange a smoky,
liquor-laced kiss
and gaze at each other
as if the band’s playing
had suddenly cleared
their clouded vision.
As the tune
sweeps upward,
the instruments join in
a symphonic surge
to lift the roof
away from the trembling
stone walls.
Sweat spills from the
piano players face
as if the dam
just broke open and all
his training and passion
could no longer be
contained.
All eyes
are on the stage;
as the women clasp hands
and the men hold
their collective breath.
The smoke is flushed
from the room;
forced out
by the music’s
growing lion’s roar.
The tempo builds
And the
voices
of brass,
string
and
taught
skins
calls
out
in
one,
long
crescendo…
We are the night!
Silver trophy winner
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