by Philip Levine

by Philip Levine
     Down sat Bud， raised his hands，
     the Deuces silenced， the lights
     lowered， and breath gathered
     for the coming storm. Then nothing，
     not a single note. Outside starlight
     from heaven fell unseen， a quarter-moon，
     promised， was no show，
     ditto the rain. Late August of '50，
     NYC， the long summer of abundance
     and our new war. In the mirror behind
     the bar， the spirits imitating you
     stared at themselves. At the bar
     the tenor player up from Philly， shut
     his eyes and whispered to no one，
     "Same thing last night." Everyone
     been coming all week long
     to hear this. The big brown bass
     sighed and slumped against
     the piano， the cymbals held
     their dry cheeks and stopped
     chicking and chucking. You went
     back to drinking and ignored
     the unignorable. When the door
     swung open it was Pettiford
     in work clothes， midnight suit，
     starched shirt， narrow black tie，
     spit shined shoes， as ready
     as he'd ever be. Eyebrows
     raised， the Irish bartender
     shook his head， so Pettiford eased
     himself down at an empty table，
     closed up his Herald Tribune，
     and shook his head. Did the TV
     come on， did the jukebox bring us
     Dinah Washington， did the stars
     keep their appointments， did the moon
     show， quartered or full， sprinkling
     its soft light down？ The night's
     still there， just where it was， just
     where it'll always be without
     its music. You're still there too
     holding your breath. Bud walked out.