A Sax Solo

Swaying in the Village Vanguard

Photo by Kobby Mendez on Unsplash

Pure unshackled free verse genius,
free flow stream of consciousness.
I’m sitting in the Village Vanguard
with my eyes closed, swaying, heartbeat
syncopating to a solo by a sax master.

She can play the blues, the bruises
of my heart, or Trane’s sheets of sound,
a deluge of beauty and grace.
She’s got a smooth sound like Stan Getz,
sweeter and thicker than Tupelo honey.

She can rag it up or get my feet jiving
with swing, my smile emerges bright,
the size of the crescent moon,
the rush, a sudden meteor shower
of dreams in a Wyoming campground.

She can slow groove a ballad
sacred and beautiful as stained glass,
mournful as a mother’s grief,
aching with lost innocence, lingering
in the silence between the words.

I close my eyes, waiting in the holy
cathedral of jazz, following her chord
changes, the blinding arpeggios,
the melodic improvisations that silence
my grieving heart, resuscitate hope,

waiting,
waiting to erupt,
the crowd on its feet,
waiting,
waiting to feel alive again.