The needle drops, its solid clunk,
Precipitates familiar crackles,
Vinyl’s weakness? Perhaps, or character,
But compensating with more soul.
The sax begins, transporting us,
To smokey bars where bourbon’s poured,
In black and white, and couples sway,
And nodding men are lost in jazz.
The snare’s shuffle entrances as,
Crisp cymbal strikes entice and take,
Our arms to stroll with walking bass,
And trumpets dance their singing scales.
Too soon the groove reaches its climax,
The side completed but not ended,
Repeated coda, beating on,
Until the arm is lifted home.

A discussion on Twitter about jazz recommendations led to acquiring some new records, and in turn to this verse.
(09.06.22)

© Ben Quant 2022