JAZZ QUARTET

  
        I

The saxophone makes
Love to the mike,
Its cool, glorious runs
Excursions to distant
Galaxies and back,

The instrument so heavy
In the musician's arms and
So full of metal buttons
That if he'd worn fatigues
You might have thought 
He was operating some 
Weird kind of artillery.

Meanwhile, his friend
The bass player's
Deft fingers weave
A complex spider web 
Of all the combo's sounds,

And as the drumbeat
Feeds Time's tick
Into the mix,

A living, protean,
Auditory Creature 
Starts to move,

A benign golem fashioned
From the Incantatory strains.

Now the piano takes
Its rollercoaster ride
Across the keys,
Safely  above 
The net of
Woven rhythm. 


      II

 
Every song, though,
Seems a mixed drink
Poured from the same bottle
Brewed with metal, wood, and ivory

And aged in a distillery 
Where sounds imbibe
From nearby subway trains
And traffic horns.

The blue and purple
Stage lights too glint
Urban reflections
Off the gold and silver metal
And the ivory and ebony,

Growing gentler, though,

When shining off
The heart-shaped 
Chiaroscuro
Of the bass.

 
        III

 
Later, in a nearby 
small cafe,
We hear an old man
Crooning ballads
As he plays
A simple keyboard,

And we find
The one part missing
In the jazz quartet's
Energetic, ranging beast:
The soul.

The old man smiles
And folds
His hands
In gentle greeting.

Our evening
Is complete.