Remember old Jazz clubs,
that looked like a cellar?
That smelled of cigarettes,
stale beer, and wanted sex.
Where bodies never stilled,
as toes tapped and heads bopped.
We were lost in rhythms,
each moment nostalgia,
just as soon as it passed.
New notes made you hungry
for more of the sweet last.
The ghosts of old music
haunted brick and mortar’s
dank and dusky aromas.
Classic riffs echoing,
in perfect counterpoint.
You could never tell time,
and no one seemed to care.
As long as the bass thrummed,
voices crooned, saxes hummed.
Folks with raspy voices,
thanked you for coming out.
And you hoped you’d be there,
on that next Saturday night.

M. Zane McClellan

Copyright 2015
All rights reserved

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