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



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