I can’t imagine a better goodbye than the smooth, unencumbered sound of jazz piano.
Death by Jazz
It’s nothing dramatic, of course.
Barely even momentous; unobtrusive
as Bill Evans and his piano
and the subtly smirking Autumn Leaves.
You just lie there, arms heavy
like two lengths of rope draping
over the side of the bed
towards radio waves that shimmer,
individual stars dancing across the carpet
warmed slightly by the sunset’s glow
leaking in through the blinds.
They waltz on over–
a little out-of-time and probably
a bit slow, for a waltz–
brushing the ends of your fingers,
just in case you forgot
what you’d be missing.
Bill Evans sends his regards from inside the disc player
as the room breathes in around you–
he and the rest of his trio,
cloistered in an endless jam session
forever releasing impressions into the air.
They have nothing better to do
than shuffle along, each beat stretched
trying to catch specks of dust as they float, forgotten
alongside your hands dull
and dimmed,
hands that won’t move to clap
after that loose bass solo.
But no worries,
they’ll know you meant to anyway.
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