the jazz player

I used to like the guy who played the piano
with his drink always full in dizzy's or the onyx or
somewhere.

outside
he'd stand solo
cigarette dangling
dreaming clouds in the smoky heat as
killers and pot dealers walk by
in heavy clothes.
inside
the piano player tickles out a tune
while a honey-eyed blonde in a banana-colored
dress
v-neck to bellybutton
eyebrows plucked away
leans against the piano like a limp cooz.
half a dozen eyes turn.
elbows like clothespins.
she sings as
a stranger comes in:
the tough handsome one
the marine military suit
after some heroic battle with evil dumb
terrorists.
the stranger nods squinted eyes
at the piano player
who nods back as
the stranger and the singer walk off
to a back room
together.

briefly,
there is a knife inside like
heartbreak symbolism.

the piano player then moves slowly into another
tune and I used to think, jesus, he should have
her, but he's certainly not in a hurry
about anything, seems to have more sense than most, he
doesn't worry about the terrorists or a better world
or how to act tough enough to deserve a woman
in a banana-colored dress;
he has that satisfied smile,
he has jazz and
wears a nice respectable suit and
you realize all he finally wants
is that drink on the piano and
then to play another tune, he knows the price of every-
thing else:
too much.

the piano player seems content enough
and then somebody asks for a blues song
and he runs it off, first sipping his drink, and then
his fingers run up and down the keys, up and down, it's
good and easy, it asks for nothing, asks for so little
that it gives hope to all those who also ask
for no chance, who ask for nothing at all,
who just ask for someplace to sit quietly and wait
for the slanting sun moving on the wall
and for the peace of soft rain
spread out all over the place.


-buk