It was the big band era, lots of brass.
Billy whalin’ on the drums
while Johnny waited for his riff
makin’ the saxophone swing.
And me, standin’ on the riser
my long arms waitin’ too.
“Wing span of a hawk,” mama said.
Just the ticket for a trombone man.
Yeah, I could slide that brass,
hear the notes strong and clear.
No strings or keys,
just that long smooth glide.
And Mabel at the mic,
feathers clipped in henna dyed hair
sultry voice in the sweet spots.
Hips, always swingin’ to the beat.
Never made it big like Glenn,
but we had our gigs.
Glass of gin between sets
and smoke swirlin’ round our heads.
They’re all gone now.
Pawned my Tbone long time ago.
But sometimes, while I’m sittin’ here,
I can put myself back there again.
Close my eyes imaginin’ and start to sway,
feel Mabel lean in real close like she did.
I wheel this chair around a bit
and I can feel us back there again.
Swingin’ to that big band sound.
THIS POST IS BEST IF READ ALOUD!
Rewritten a bit from an older post. Shared at OLN by reading aloud at our online dVerse pub event. dVerse is a virtual pub for poets around the globe – except that once a month we have a live Zoom-like gathering where we read aloud a poem and can actually see and hear the creators of all the words we’ve been sharing for so many years at this amazing virtual pub.