A song I wish I could play

Wait.

You’re listening for the clarinet. Throughout. You’re listening for the sinuous, slinky beginning, smoke curling through the door towards a damsel, arm to forehead, looking forlornly at a love letter or a photograph or a tumbler of gin. You’re looking at her eyes, which are so hollow with sadness you can barely see the glitter of life. You’re looking at all of the glamour of her, and how it seems to be wasted and alone.

Wait.

You’re listening to the violins take up the slack left by Artie Shaw’s clarinet meandering out of the track for a moment, before the band join, building up to an explosion that simply doesn’t come, softening at the edges before the clarinet blasts over the surface hitting just. that. note. And the way it starts to spur the band into that same slink.

Wait.

It’s beautiful, but you know it can’t last much longer. The burst of energy wears it out, and it floats to a stop. Dead.