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Bound     —Vince Storti

Perry's Joynt, Fillmore Street;
mood of late afternoon,
a chillin' day in August, grey fog sky,
record of café jazz in the background:
I'm guessin' it's Miles,
something from the 50's,
and then, all of a sudden,
there's a man off the street, walkin' into the café,
he's dressed a way you can't forget him,
all in black, arriving in a silent way,
seeming to be in his own world,
as he stops a foot from me,
seeming not to notice anything around,
and by his actions, showin' he's listening to that jazz,
and is intent on getting' the riffs right,
wantin' to hear it the way it is,
the way it is, like cool and smooth, man:
wanting to hear it right,
as he slowly bends over, his hands stretched before him,
his fingers moving as if playing the piece,his arms tense with the weight of an invisible horn,
and he and I are saying nothing, each of us savoring,
each of us, in our own ways, connecting to a faraway sax,
the sweet mood and gentle bops of it,
the intersection, the notes, the bones,
as he and I are two pairs of eyes, two sets of ears,
two minds understandin' whatever they do,
and maybe not always the same thing,
as the floated sounds spin in a background riff,
to call up the clubs in the past, the jazz moments now,
as the man in black leaves for the street, without saying a word,
as the big poster, the one with the picture of Miles, stares:
it is the one that shows him with his finger up to his mouth:
it is a photo frozen in time,
bound there,
in a silent way, a silent way--------------
SHHHHHHHH