B.Z. Niditch

 WAITING FOR MINGUS


Waiting for Mingus
jostled near the bar
heedless to the lucid light
of not yet morning,
with the pitter patter
of spraying rosin
on my jazz violin
next to Charlie’s bass
harmonizing the winds
in a city dripping
with turning away
the poor back up singer
who faints from hunger
before my adolescent feet
and all I want
is to jam
or murder a blood orange
until the cops arrive
to arrest anyone
they could get
their heavy hands on,
so this kid beats it
slips out of the alley
and finally pisses
his chance
of a life time
that day Mingus played
and I lost my deep strings
spewed out
by a future urn
breathing faster
than the abandoned gods
of Holderlin and Novalis.