She had long given up
on any hope of conversation
until the sets were over.
They had their traditional table,
first row, to the right of the stage
closest to the piano player.
The usual Saturday night trio played.
She enjoyed the music, especially
the upright bass, but he was in love,
closing his eyes during keyboard solos,
wide smile when the sax took over.
Two stories up from the basement
level club, the smallest apartment
on the block, notes ooze up through
the floor as a young man takes a break —
gently placing his old, used six-string
on the stand —
so he can change the band-aids
on his bleeding fingers.
A hat full of dollars at her feet give
her the confidence to keep playing
the dirty street corner, knowing
there would be a hot meal tonight,
hope for a room at the shelter
would occur to her later.
The bartender at the Blue Note
gets lost in the songs — forgets
drinks, loses tips — seeking inspiration.
She knows she will not sleep tonight,
her soul coursing from pen to page,
a torrent of words seeking a tune.
The couple at the front table
hold hands and drink their wine.
Witten for dVerse Poets and a ‘music’ prompt from Stu.
Also posted to the Imaginary Garden.