Nothing is Warmer Than a Jazz Night in January

Sixty little pushes of energy,
resonating humming timbre,
skate across the icy open.
Mahogany piano counter top
of diced notes and chopped chords is
accompanied, decorated by the C-sharp crackling
reverb of one virgin ice cube, swimming in Jameson
like echoing audience snapping fingers to a wine bar
jazz tune.

Amber light reflects off salmon walls, and
the emotion is swimming,
bloodied against upstream with every flick of
a pinched down stroke string’s strum and
encompassed by the mind of matted hair.

Glasses perch at the end of nose tip
and the stationed swirling bass reels out a
boomerang note, spinning in one ear
and out the other of every listener, and only returning to
simply explode again from the hollowed cherry body.

Eyes closed, protected from the pianist’s
hair, splashing aimlessly,
water upon the rocks, and
droplets stream into transparent fingers, furiously,
upon the ivory.

But Art culminating to one simple end note,
encoring Gershwin’s articulate silence.