Silent Crescendo

A repost of what happens when I listen to jazz...

 

There he stood—three years running

Spring Break and jazz came and the

baton was passed out of his fingers seamlessly.

He didn't know, his shoes—still dancing,

along the hot, black pavement as

the trumpet Mourned to me about

St. James Infirmary and the sounds

of laughter, the smell of Bourbon

letting me become anyone I wanted, just for that time,

as bodies intertwined and became the crowd.

No sound in the world like jazz.

The music, crescendo at the end—

Silence as I watched the race, spectator only,

greeting him as he won the gold medal.

Author's Note

This is a repost, since all of our writing was lost.