El Chapultepec was not like the Blue Note
Or the joint on Cahuenga
in the 60s when I
an 18-year-old underage
blond and virgin
crept in after hours
to watch the music up
there at the end of the dark
room with just a few
tables of bodies
murmurs around
cigarettes and tight lips
riffs I’d never heard before
moans I’d learn to understand
riffs to swirl my head
beringed dark fingers
soothed me to my shoes
with his long grooves
and ladies’ hips
quiet gyrate long
around my soul
I smelled the heat
I felt seriously real
But here on Market Street
in the other room
away from blowing
saxes and drumbeats
I beat Jaco at pool
And helped him to a seat
Couldn’t have won
If he’d not been done
out with that stuff
but he was gone.
So I left him alone.
That was in my 30s
I’d learned my way
around the circle of 5ths
and scatted with B.B.
Can you believe it
on a snowy night in
Boulder when things got
rowdy even a white
girl could make an
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