Dexter Gordon’s tenor sax
plays “April in Pairs”
inside my head all the way back
on the bus from Double Bay.
Round Midnight, the 50’s,
cool cobblestone streets
resound footsteps of Bebop
musicians with whiskey-laced voices
from a boundless dream in French,
Bud, Prez, Webster and The Hawk,
their names run together
like mellifluous riffs.
Painful gods jive talk through
bloodstained reeds and shiny brass
where music is an anesthetic.
Unreadable faces from the human void