the cold

short brother with a pork pie hat
bent, crone-like, over his upright piano
Monk's doppelganger
-- parallax --
in that tiny apartment in Ann Arbor
a chunky guitar player with grey beret
a slick jazz guitar slung close to his chest
a drummer I can barely remember
except that he is wild, all over the place
and me on electric bass

I have never played free jazz
lost, I pluck rapid, random notes
I think the whole thing is crazy
crazy

that summer I am on the Diag
a little art festival on the square
these guys appear, with an upright bass player
they have learned some standards
to which they add just a pinch of that crazy off kilter
they really have it together
and I, for the 2nd or 3rd time in my musical career
feel left out in the cold