Down sat Bud， raised his hands，

    the Deuces silenced， the lights

    lowered， and breath gathered

    for the coming storm. Then nothing，

    not a single note. Outside starlight

    from heaven fell unseen， a quarter-moon，

    promised， was no show，

    ditto the rain. Late August of '50，

    NYC， the long summer of abundance

    and our new war. In the mirror behind

    the bar， the spirits imitating you

    stared at themselves. At the bar

    the tenor player up from Philly， shut

    his eyes and whispered to no one，

    "Same thing last night." Everyone

    been coming all week long

    to hear this. The big brown bass

    sighed and slumped against

    the piano， the cymbals held

    their dry cheeks and stopped

    chicking and chucking. You went

    back to drinking and ignored

    the unignorable. When the door

    swung open it was Pettiford

    in work clothes， midnight suit，

    starched shirt， narrow black tie，

    spit shined shoes， as ready

    as he'd ever be. Eyebrows

    raised， the Irish bartender

    shook his head， so Pettiford eased

    himself down at an empty table，

    closed up his Herald Tribune，

    and shook his head. Did the TV

    come on， did the jukebox bring us

    Dinah Washington， did the stars

    keep their appointments， did the moon

    show， quartered or full， sprinkling

    its soft light down？ The night's

    still there， just where it was， just

    where it'll always be without

    its music. You're still there too

    holding your breath. Bud walked out.