b.z. niditch | icons


Stomping at the Savoy
Sarah Vaughan,
long dressed
in a blue ball gown
with a brassy bebop voice
alive once in a century
among crazy dances
for an incredulous kid
with undiscovered eyes
near the granite steps
of the jazz club
his shoelaces are gone
in the half-light
between late sun
and shadow,
absurdly escaping
from a parental storm
all fevered for adventure
new to all expletives
obsessed with the circus
stubbornly leaving
his French art lesson
house taught by his uncle
from the university
on Rouault’s
always moving
“Three Clowns”
and Picasso’s
surreal “Harlequin”
now glued to
the unlimited range
of a salty singer
I’m dazed even now
from a long winded
memory of a magnetic
human voice.

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