It’s almost a cliché to observe
how easily jazz conspires with night.
Just think of all those album covers
of parked cars bathed in neon light.
Driving to a dental appointment,
windshield wipers beating slow
syncopation with Monk’s quartet
in this sober, winter-morning glow,
I take my cue from brakes ahead,
(muffled alarms in powdered light)
and think jazz never sounded better
than in this fermata, this white night.
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