In a deserted tearoom in 1950s Paris
A man and a woman hold each other and dance slowly
To the edible sounds of a gramophone sitting loudly in the corner
Blowing out Sidney Bechet’s ‘Petite Fleur’ from its brass horn.
Tired patterns on the wallpaper go unnoticed,
Stale pink-iced sponge cakes sitting boastfully on their cake-stands
Also forgotten
As the vibrato notes of Bechet bend around and through the couple,
Sublime wails of clarinet and golden saxophone jazz
Monopolize the walls, the ceilings, the floor; every breath.
Outside a passerby pauses under the damp night, illuminated by streetlamp
But sees only a man and woman gently dancing to silence
And as the song ends the dance continues,
Ghosts of melody still playing out the scene in the tearoom.
A man and a woman hold each other and dance slowly
To the edible sounds of a gramophone sitting loudly in the corner
Blowing out Sidney Bechet’s ‘Petite Fleur’ from its brass horn.
Tired patterns on the wallpaper go unnoticed,
Stale pink-iced sponge cakes sitting boastfully on their cake-stands
Also forgotten
As the vibrato notes of Bechet bend around and through the couple,
Sublime wails of clarinet and golden saxophone jazz
Monopolize the walls, the ceilings, the floor; every breath.
Outside a passerby pauses under the damp night, illuminated by streetlamp
But sees only a man and woman gently dancing to silence
And as the song ends the dance continues,
Ghosts of melody still playing out the scene in the tearoom.
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