That black 33 1/3
circled the life of song
spinning it out
in round of rounds
dark shiny onyx
like Alabama nights
pushed a sound of
scratch and horns
and bass with drums
forming a jumpy beat
as the man on ivories
jams the air
choking out a new sound
free of starch
alive to feet and hands
rubbing in the jazz
like Cleopatra’s oil
smoother than glass
with aroma
that no one
escapes.
Roger Singer 