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j.l. feinstein

Jazz Joint

by posted in verse on permalink


I sat at a table
it was a hip little joint:
low lights, cats in the corner
playing jazz, messengers
from a different decade.

I sat at the table,
with my gin and tonic,
no ice, just a dash of lime;
while the trumpet crooned…

I sat at this table
and hoped
someone
would sit there
with me.

They would say “hi,”
and smile through their eyeliner,
and I’d notice the fine wrinkles at the corners of their eyes
dance mischievously,
as though they were telling me a secret;
while Autumn Leaves drift over us and around us,
and bury us
under the ringing raindrops.

We will speak softly to each other,
our voices will be muffled and intimate
under our blanket of leaves like feather downs.

We will lie, warm, and soft-skinned,
floating,
half-asleep and euphoric,
in the fragrance of quinine and juniper and lime.

Maybe with the next gin and tonic,
someone
will sit at the table
with me.