In smoky shadows a pianist plays; gray fedora perched and tilted like an expectant bird atop his brow.
He remembers the jazz but lives the blues and wonders where the girls of summers past are now.
Man was not made to make music alone or sit in confines of crowded bars.
He must taste fresh air and study the sea and go out walking among the stars.
With arthritic hands the guitarist weeps for tunes forgotten or never learned.
Staring silently into embers that glow and fade once the hardwood of life has burned.
His heart, still fresh with music and love; his mind full of beauty and wonder.
He looks to heaven and seeing clouds, is reminded how softness can thunder.
There was a time when they played together with words and women and wine.
The music seemed to last forever like a symphony of something dreamed and divine.
Time befalls the best composer. Words to the aria fade in the mist.
Jazz becomes blues and blue memories warm like a love lost; remembered by a single kiss.