Jazz
I am listening to a woman singing in a language floating past my ears, the words crisp and close and tender. I am thinking of a man, a figure at the edge of a ball game, watching the clean kiss of hickory and leather and stitches and sand, all spliced together and called a triple in the 9th inning. But I am not there, with him, or here, with the woman, seeing what he sees, understanding what's inside her that releases itself in melody, in counterpoint, in pentatonic harmony. My existence this evening is a simple one, one surrounded by shadows of people and lives and lovers and quietly amusing things best shared with strangers in dark places. I find myself searching for the concrete cave, the hole in the wall, the small secluded inn where people gather to debate whether or not The Jazz Age was really so full of Jazz, or just a glimpse of sadness we glorified in a collective attempt to forget.
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