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I’ve got the word
wailing in my brain,
crouched on the tip
of my tongue
like a cliff diver
for the plunge
into a roiling sea
of madness

maybe it’s because
I dreamt last night
of my grandfather
and his trio playing
a small stage
in a smoky club
where the bartenders
wear ties, the gents
and ladies all
dress to the nines

worn brass keys
and a buzzing reed
breathing life
into jazz,
stopping the hearts
of all who dare
to listen
as that last note
trails off
into the distance