Horace Silver at the Piano
Horace Silver at the Piano
Down the lonely afternoon,
the dark and sunny day,
alone in smoky silence,
Horace bends low over his hands.
Whisky circles widen, merge,
glisten wet on the upright lid.
A long ash shudders in anticipation.
Close on the yellow keys,
head cocked, listening,
he is not playing,
he is conjuring,
note by solitary note,
into trembling air.
This is how it is done,
alone in an empty bar,
in dusty light,
in a quiet place.
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