Down sat Bud, raised his hands, <br />the Deuces silenced, the lights <br />lowered, and breath gathered <br />for the coming storm. Then nothing, <br />not a single note. Outside starlight <br />from heaven fell unseen, a quarter- <br />moon, promised, was no show, <br />ditto the rain. Late August of '50, <br />NYC, the long summer of abundance <br />and our new war. In the mirror behind <br />the bar, the spirits—imitating you— <br />stared at themselves. At the bar <br />the tenor player up from Philly, shut <br />his eyes and whispered to no one, <br />'Same thing last night.' Everyone <br />been coming all week long <br />to hear this. The big brown bass <br />sighed and slumped against <br />the piano, the cymbals held <br />their dry cheeks and stopped <br />chicking and chucking. You went <br />back to drinking and ignored <br />the unignorable. When the door <br />swung open it was Pettiford <br />in work clothes, midnight suit, <br />starched shirt, narrow black tie, <br />spit shined shoes, as ready <br />as he'd ever be. Eyebrows <br />raised, the Irish bartender <br />shook his head, so Pettiford eased <br />himself down at an empty table, <br />closed up his Herald Tribune, <br />and shook his head. Did the TV <br />come on, did the jukebox bring us <br />Dinah Washington, did the stars <br />keep their appointments, did the moon <br />show, quartered or full, sprinkling <br />its soft light down? The night's <br />still there, just where it was, just <br />where it'll always be without <br />its music. You're still there too <br />holding your breath. Bud walked out.<br /><br />Philip Levine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-52nd-street/
