Jazz Alley, Inaka-Style

Remember? That back-corner salary man

who turned his house into a jazz bar.

I remember the wife's bucket 

of clean slippers, as I entered the loft, 

Sonny Stitt shouting with

his horn, cold nights that I ended there for a drink,

eating caramel corn and beer nuts over a whiskey-

Laphroaig, straight.

I showed you it at the end. 

Time was up, and for 

one, time was over. Maybe too late,

but I loved it anyway. It didn't become

my little home, but it was part of that.

The adventure, and I'm glad we shared it, for a time.

Those small moments, small places. The chance at 

new things, new moments, so foreign and different.

I was lost in the newness, and I was lost

in the selfishness of the moments. Inescapable,

complex. 

Play that record again.