I think of him working
on a cold night, a brakeman
on the Pennsy, and reaching
down into the dark, throwing
a switch, his hands cold
on cold iron, the left one feeling
for a bass line, the right
all over the length of the bar,
going at Ellington, note for note.
Later, he'll stop on the way home
for a couple blackberry brandies,
and fire will lick at his chest, burn
red in his face. His hands, though,
will hold the cold longer.
Between drinks he'll let his hands go,
his chin drop to his chest,
and, for a moment, his eyes close,
but he never lets go
of the hard mahogany bar, his cold
fingers working that same Ellington
that has burned in his head all night,
and the head getting nearer
his hands. I can hear the music, now;
recall the beaten upright piano,
the trainyard at Wheatsheath Lane,
and the weedrun lot where the bar
used to be, the place I've stopped today
to get my hands warm again.
