The all-night college radio station
is playing a shuffle mix
of current rock,
poetry, jazz, stupid PSAs.
Right now, something
by Django Reinhardt.
I take note
of this moment.
Nothing
is happening.
There is a wild-haired
silhouette in the corner mirror.
Django is comping along
while Stephane Grappelli
is tearing it up
happy hot-club stylee
on fiddle.
I have no role to play
in the delicious moment of waiting
for the next moment
to shuffle up.
I don’t have a role to play;
nevertheless, I’ve used the “I”
four times now
in speaking of the moment,
five if you count
the one in quotes.
A smoking man, Django was.
He would have called a break now,
Would have lit a cigarette,
probably one pulled from a hardshell case.
On my left hand,
the middle and ring fingers
suddenly,
obscurely,
ache.
