WHAT YOU GOT
“Why you smiling playing that jazz?” She asked with serious
eyes and lips parting the oceans of my thoughts.
“It’s the spirit shadow inside me.” I replied, smiling
into her deep pool eyes and hurricane hair.
“It pushes you into play? Making fingers find the notes?”
I leaned on the bass and slapped the strings. A groaning
echo released hard into the air between us.
I looked up and said. “I hear a sound like voices yelling
from a passing train.” She tilted her head back, laughing.
I slid the strings with my fingers, releasing notes. Her eyes
were full and curious. She hummed to my playing,
swaying her shoulders.
“I see the jazz.” She said. Her eyes now closed. “It’s
got hold of the music in me.”
I played on. The language of jazz was speaking.
Roger Singer 