The Jazz Man. Wrapped in the warmth of a Crombie coat, A porkpie on his head, The man, Not just any man. A Jazz man. Walks through the pre-dawn Twilight clinging to his case; Like a Mother holding the hand of A wayward child. Tightly. Through the wet, glistening by Lamplight, Narrow Soho back streets, He heads to the place where other likeminded souls would often meet. He would enter through the door and down the narrow stairs. Ethereal smoke wafts through the air, as a miasmic cloud is punctured by a polkadot of red covered lights. Eyes still wrapped in black framed glasses that hide his bloodshot eyes. The man smiles. He takes his place to the right of the stage. His coat cordially placed on a stand. The case is snapped open. There she is! The long swan like neck gleaming in the subdued light. The reed is placed A deep inhale And a journey through Fantastical lands, And snapshots of time Ensues. People lurking like Sillouhettes begin to nod In appreciation. Then syncopated rhythmic claps, And "yeah's" punctuate those all important silences. Beads of sweat pour down the cheeks, As fingers rhythmically run up the spine of the gleaming brass swan necked instrument. Before another musical tale develops, The top button of the once pristine white button down is undone. The narrow blade of midnight silk is loosened. Then the solo Breathes into the club. The Jazz man is now home. yes the jazz man is now home. He grows in stature as the solo builds, builds, builds And a journey through Fantastical lands, And snapshots of time Ensues. People lurking like Sillouhettes begin to nod In appreciation once more. yes the jazz man is where he should be. ©Jason Disley 2016.
