reading music (aka hot pants)

as it was the year
of the split shift & 
cut time for everybody, 
i was bussed
in the dark of
diminishing night, 
when i sat in a seat
made for someone bigger, 
staring at my own face
in the blank window, 
my lips jazzed
with a jumble
of dreams&longing, 
in love with
a trombonist
who improvised. 

we all came early to
play rhythm&blues. 

count basie was in my head, 
driving my hip-swinging walk
to a locker where I stood
for the longest time, 
thinking about what was
under my coat. 
the strangest feel
of nylon and denim, 
complicated fabrics
that have an influence
on skin. 
the too-layered feel
should have been
indication that this
was not meant to last. 
i was not a singer
but here i was
dressed like one. 
i didn’t know about style
& the way you wore clothes
was you having it. 

we all came early to
play rhythm&blues. 

i got tired of the
slowness in the air
& looked to my neighbor, 
a girl that blew like me. 
she wanted out of the
bubble, too,&showed
me what was under
her coat, which crazily
was a version
of the same. 
we wore hot pants. 
the hallway could be
any hallway. 
the fact that we stood
together could be
true or false, 
but the coincidence
of our (was it?) 
modesty was very true. 
hot did not describe
attractive then. 
pants were anything but. 

we all came early to
play rhythm&blues. 

with horns in our hands
bad fashion was assumed
part of the arrangement, 
another way to take a chance
with the notes&pauses. 
in the key of conspicuous
more of the details
could be assimilated, 
be played. 
adding to the melody, 
the refrain made memorable, 
like a player’s raised eyebrows
was the seam between
one thought&the next. 
we shiny-skinned the effort
until our lungs hurt, 
until collecting light
we spent a good morning
warming up the metal. 

we all came early to
play rhythm&blues. 

© Tori Grant Welhouse