b.z. niditch | when i met nina simone


In low rise San Francisco
the dish still repeats
Nina Simone
with no one watching
behind withdrawn blinds
at her rehearsal
but everyone speaking
or chewing on gossip
pasta or pork
trying to sleep off
war or death
chilled out
by every Dear John
or Jane letter, not willing
to surrender
the happy hour
even the remote chance
or losing control
of a small reception
yet you still keep on
playing the blues
here in a Frisco October
on the sidewalks’ cafe
no one sleeps
except on music sheets
in harmony on brass beds
with my newly haired bow
of my violin’s rosin
I’m floating notes
in a lifetime club
gazing at the Bay.

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