The same weasel I played
jazz with for four years,
came back trying to bump
me out of the saddle with this girl
at the Stagger Inn. Earlier,
he was ear-hustling in line
behind us, waiting to talk
of his newest band. After midnight,
a sense of scarcity can be smelled:
There’s not enough love to go
around or the idea that a record’s
no good by the time everybody’s laid
ears on it. Maybe I’m the one repeating
myself and jealous and drunk.
Either way it’s still the same three or four
low notes calling home from infinity.