On 52nd Street

　　by Philip Levine

　　 Down sat Bud， raised his hands，

　　 the Deuces silenced， the lights

　　 lowered， and breath gathered

　　 for the coming storm. Then nothing，

　　 not a single note. Outside starlight

　　 from heaven fell unseen， a quarter-moon，

　　 promised， was no show，

　　 ditto the rain. Late August of '50，

　　 NYC， the long summer of abundance

　　 and our new war. In the mirror behind

　　 the bar， the spirits imitating you

　　 stared at themselves. At the bar

　　 the tenor player up from Philly， shut

　　 his eyes and whispered to no one，

　　 "Same thing last night." Everyone

　　 been coming all week long

　　 to hear this. The big brown bass

　　 sighed and slumped against

　　 the piano， the cymbals held

　　 their dry cheeks and stopped

　　 chicking and chucking. You went

　　 back to drinking and ignored

　　 the unignorable. When the door

　　 swung open it was Pettiford

　　 in work clothes， midnight suit，

　　 starched shirt， narrow black tie，

　　 spit shined shoes， as ready

　　 as he'd ever be. Eyebrows

　　 raised， the Irish bartender

　　 shook his head， so Pettiford eased

　　 himself down at an empty table，

　　 closed up his Herald Tribune，

　　 and shook his head. Did the TV

　　 come on， did the jukebox bring us

　　 Dinah Washington， did the stars

　　 keep their appointments， did the moon

　　 show， quartered or full， sprinkling

　　 its soft light down？ The night's

　　 still there， just where it was， just

　　 where it'll always be without

　　 its music. You're still there too

　　 holding your breath. Bud walked out.

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