Crystal ClinK. A dry
martini burns the throat
while smoky halos loop eyes
already glassy.
My hand
tap, tap, Tapping, TapPy
impatiently.
waiting.
“Al Capone once sat here.”
Murmurs of “Oh” and “Ah.”
waiting.
Dawn is approaching.
Can’t they see that the time is short?
waiting.
A buzz of silent expectation weaves
as the man who looks like a Joe
sits at the piano. A not e
stirs the murky air,
ringing.
Others follow, bring their pitches
and half-formed feelings of song.
And joining them is He,
the Mr. Cool on saxophone sweet
telling a story in a breath that is us.
No me.
No you.
Only our dreams
and illusions floating,
soaring away
on the smoky air.
A song of ages
implicating us all,
damning us all.
* The Green Mill is an old Chicago speakeasy still known for its jazz today.