A man at the end of the room palms a neck

dipped under a curve of light. Each visitor is coupled

elbow to elbow, lining sepia-printed walls like stone

guards. Waiting for the escape of death.

Down the aisle, on elevated ground, a string

tremors strapped to a chair, released

on a condition: divulgence of the secret.

We must stay huddled to catch it by the collar

before it can slip around the corner. Secure the outside latch,

leave the sound tied up in a Walmart bag, heaving.

At the end of the dark hall, a woman my age

weaves around the bar lined with glass bottles

imbued with amber light. Above her,

she carries temporary cures to the age old

temporary problem to set them down

for jesting beer bellied fathers. She can’t leave

til the curiosity is exhausted.

I stand up to use the bathroom at Café Alto,

where the fixed faces await the second coming

of Bird or Duke or whomever they came to exhume.

At the top of the creaking wooden stringer is a dark hallway

with a glint of gold at my feet. In the right stall, I hear

the saxophone solo downstairs and a faint breathing.

As I wash my hands, I hear the man again,

still clenched, awaiting the trail of my footsteps.

I close the door before me and hold

my applause til each confined thunk is flushed.