The air had an aroma of mischief,
unshaven faces, sweaty collars,
dancers and players
all fashioned under
a darkness,
rising in song, raising with voices
the chance of a gathering
on red dirt roads
where magnolias steal the senses
and whispers rule the night
while fingers
become the language under stars
without names and in places
beyond time
as faces pass fences
and porches of evening
with children on swings
as parents say nothing
and trains open whistles
through towns hard asleep
where sidewalks cool
from midday heat
as dogs growl at shadows
with hats tipped low
as mischief hunts
for unlocked doors.
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 