I sit beside two women， kitty-corner

    to the stage， as Elvin's sticks blur

    the club into a blue fantasia.

    I thought my body had forgotten the Deep

    South， how I'd cross the street

    if a woman like these two walked

    towards me， as if a cat traversed

    my path beneath the evening star.

    Which one is wearing jasmine？

    If my grandmothers saw me now

    they'd say， Boy， the devil never sleeps.

    My mind is lost among November

    cotton flowers， a soft rain on my face

    as Richard Davis plucks the fat notes

    of chance on his upright

    leaning into the future.

    The blonde， the brunette-

    which one is scented with jasmine？

    I can hear Duke in the right hand

    & Basie in the left

    as the young piano player

    nudges us into the past.

    The trumpet's almost kissed

    by enough pain. Give him a few more years，

    a few more ghosts to embrace-Clifford's

    shadow on the edge of the stage.

    The sign says， No Talking.

    Elvin's guardian angel lingers

    at the top of the stairs，

    counting each drop of sweat

    paid in tribute. The blonde

    has her eyes closed， & the brunette

    is looking at me. Our bodies

    sway to each riff， the jasmine

    rising from a valley somewhere

    in Egypt， a white moon

    opening countless false mouths

    of laughter. The midnight

    gatherers are boys & girls

    with the headlights of trucks

    aimed at their backs， because

    their small hands refuse to wound

    the knowing scent hidden in each bloom.