Davis places a nickel into the meter.
He says nothing. He walks to the corner and watches the sun set,
the ocean of light receding to a beach the color of graves
saves his voice for a woman he knew his whole life would be waiting there.
Hello
refracts through the air like a lighthouse beacon through fog.
Belle says nothing. She is waiting for a man she doesn't even know
to look her way and say
love,
did you know a fault line lies under New York City?
When she answers correctly,
as she's never sure she will with hard questions about geology,
she will notice him there, making echoes on the earth in tribute
to her tectonic skin
her smile, causing her brow and her mouth to move like mountains.
He is only a player in the most literal sense.
Never much for big band, just steel strings in hand and her,
his muse, hallowed be her harp-string of a heart,
thumping to the rhythm of black-and-blue ruckus,
prayers to gods of memory loss and escape.
Fate finds Davis miles away from himself -
kind of blue, or kind of silent. Tonight,
he is a million sacrifices of soundwaves
not knowing true love's real name,
gambling like the lord is coming tomorrow
so he must sin well tonight...
Safety safely secured me a seat at a feast
when all I want is a sandwich with you.
Belle smiles bashfully,
feeling bold in a sleepless city
roused from half-real reveries.
Name the time and place,
she says, feet shaking and tapping to the rhythm of rolling rocks.
Belle begins moving, dancing like she forgot what year it is
what block she was on
who she was waiting for.
You.
His hand glides up and down the neck of the instrument
like a lover just returned blind from the war
as its case lies discarded as last night's mistakes on the sidewalk.
He holds it firm, praying this is the day an upright bass becomes a love poem
thinking
Wow, if pretty could kill, you'd be the Manhattan Project.
And he'd be the last survivor.
And she'd be the last thing he'd be alive for.
As Davis plucks strings like he is a puppetmaster
and Belle dances like a liquid Pinocchio
but she only wants to lie with him
as the quake hits crescendo
and the notes
become notes, strips of papyrus carved with quartz saying
You are the rhythm playing inside me
and I lose the beat enough without throwing it away.
My body is sheet music
and you sight read me flawlessly.
Courtlan did not get arrested that night.
He did not get one too many traffic tickets
and was not told to give up his car
or his jazz spot.
He gave the renaissance lovers a place to go,
didn't attract the police to Davis and Belle's loitering love poem.
On the other side of the street,
Belle dares God to snatch the papyrus from her palms,
her paper skin turning stone, glistening as she falls into
his arms like a suicide, back-first...
his hand moves up and down her neck
his instrument
his lover
his instrument
his lover...
His fingers explore her skin.
52nd street
lays scattered like a deck of cards waiting to be picked up.
All that jazz...
but what's a handful of clubs to a royal flush?
Love, Davis says
did you know a fault line lies under New York City?
Under 125th,
Belle says back.
Davis packs up his past just in time to feel the rumble of downbeat.
He takes Belle's hand, walks to the wreckage they created and says
See? It took God six days to create the Earth.
In one night, I opened it just for you.