Long time, no poem

But the jazz yesterday made me look up this old one.

To Duke Heitger:


and to the Jazzin' Babies:



Hear the Jazz Go Down

'You step inside but you don't see too many faces
Coming in out of the rain to hear the jazz go down'
(Mark Knopfler: Sultans of Swing)

Passing in the cold street
you're pulled inside by music
erupting through the wall

Trio fills the pub, eight drinkers
fight for space. Candles
scorch brown panels, turn beer to brass,
wine to pulsing blood

A sax and battered trombone
nailed to ceiling. Photos
of visiting bands, four seats
by the bar, long bench along the wall

Silent listeners except one couple
arguing about a missing
napsack. Barman shushes, liquid
guitar tells them to shut up

Stony-faced, the player walks strings,
moves from soft to stinging rain.

Drummer slams lids, breaks plates,
pounds steak in an unseen kitchen

Bass player vibrates your thighs
like deep rumbling volcanoes

and the jazz goes down.

Shisa