It's So Right

Driving along
flickering white lines
metronome
Gerry Brown drifts in and out of my conciousness
over the airwaves
almost imperceptible
it's not until I realize what the dial is tuned to
that's the beauty of traveling through other towns
they're on different frequencies, you see.
That's how I like my jazz
unexpected, mirth
filled with cadence out of step of any 4/4 time
the brush
the snare
the soothing, swimming sax
the sultry voice croons
lifting to some gritty lamp lit
boozed boulevard
where drunks hang on lamp poles
croon themselves to sleep
Can you hear it?
I see a pinwheel
spinning in warm Summer afternoon breezes
(it's not humid, it's just right.)
colors blur
in the background
sunflowers reach to the light
The road goes on and
the music drifts in and out
and my mind just flys
in and out of the future, the past,
the present
Where a story has no beginning, no climax
no de'noumet, no resolve
Is it really a story then?
this ramble just does what's intended
paint a picture
a snapshot
leaving the reader to take it from there
My voice
I've heard some times
And this is one of those instances.
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