Small Town Jazz, Part 5

This is the fifth installment in an epic poem about a small-town jazz club.  The other four installments may be found by scrolling down on this blog.

Image result for snow on log cabin


What you try to do when you start out

You try to get it right

It’s an elusive thing

You can do everything right

And still miss

The musicians tell me the same thing

You play rock and roll

And it’s always there

Whatever that “it” is

The chords, the beat, the melody

It’s all the same there

But with jazz

Things are more moody

You’ve got to know your chops

Your instrument

But there are nights where

It won’t go together

No matter what you do

It’s those other nights that you live for

When it works better than you thought

It ever could

And you hear yourself thinking

Yeah, this is it.  I knew it could be this way

There were nights

Those you’d least expect

Some dank, raw evening in early March

Wind blowing.  The leftover grime

Of winter everywhere

Your guitar player doesn’t make it at all

And something happens and

The music slows down

And time slows down

And the place and everybody in it

Feels a surge of energy and joy

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