It has to be Johnny Hartman
with Trane framing that
voice that flows smooth
and rich like a river
of barrel proof bourbon
rippling with McCoy’s chords,
Jimmy and Elvin’s beats
popping like ice in a glass,
and the wheel of life starts
rolling you back through
the gay places, the low
dives, finally the side porch,
sitting alone late at night,
that pint bottle at your feet
almost exhaling whiskey breath,
you running your finger
around the rim of the glass,
tracing each bead of sweat
sliding down the sides,
pressing it to your forehead
to cool the sudden flush
that starts just at the hairline,
hands trembling a little now,
so another small splash into
the glass, slivers of ice tinkling
as your hand shakes,
the lush life in this small
circle of light.