Waiting for Dex

I miss the un-digital, the pre-electric
Miles between notes, cool, acoustic,
low-tech vinyl groove. I miss the zen
of black and white, the intimate first-take
single-track time when daisies split
East village asphalt. Trench coat Monk
and Trane's supreme love, Dexter's breath,
the blow of the heart through a mouthpiece of gold.
Un-Fendered gut, the strung out modal solo,
Scotch, no rocks, Cafe Montmartre,
flatted ninth, ex-patriot bruise,
Jazz Messengers, 1958.
Blue, kind of, Williamsburg Bridge
where Sonny practiced lonely tunes
all night to the windy moon,
and the not so special effects of
Harlem River sunrise muted through raindrops
on a Yellow Cab at 5 AM
still waiting outside Birdland.

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