The Double Bass Jazz Maker

^{By A.Gagliardi}

He dons his Double Bass,

making love to it

as he strums the strings,

caressing its slender neck.

Swear words create a surprise punch

to his syncopated words.

I close my eyes to narrow the focus,

to listen better; to see the

pictures painted with his sound;

finishing sentences with notes instead of words.

And it is all right.

He takes a tune and runs amok with it.

The music washes me in the blood of the Lamb.

I hear the instruments dance with each other

in the minor keys of my desires.

My chest is the tympani, Tympani, Tympani

echoing their beat.

Dimmed lights reveal the kitchen colloguy

tapping perfect time;

vibrating with the new rhythm created.

And it is all right.

His jazz takes me to a

new place, new place, New place.

The smell of the wine as I raise my glass

mingles with your perfume and

the slap of his shoe on the floor.

His hand beats a rhythm on the wood of the

Piano – providing percussion - a beat, a beat, a beat.

And it is all right.

How does an hour go by unaware?

How does the music take me

to another place?

He sorts the notes into new lengths;

stretching and repeating phrases,

creating a dissertation.

I follow the beat down the rabbit hole;

feeling the wine slide

Smoothly down, Smoothly down, Smoothly down .

My ears resonate with his rythm.

And it is all right.