By Russell Dupont

I find myself talking about The Corner
and Aram’s Spa at King & Train; about
the guys and all the good times.

Like when Pumper would do
one of his crazy impressions
or when Tommy would shinny

up the pole and sit on top
of the red fire alarm box
wearing his goofy grin.

Joe Bazarian, chewing on
a dead cigar – hovering over
the day’s racing form.

There was Chunky,
Cool Chunky
Rock ’n Roll Chunky,

black pompadour slicked back,
the ever-present butt dangling
from the corner of his mouth,

a pack of Camels rolled up
in the sleeve of his Tee.
It was jazz…the blues….poetry…

all rolled into one melody,
a nightly syncopation —
of soulful, joyous dissonance —

a reawakening —
Coltrane cradling infinity
through his horn —

unexpected rhythms
beat out like Nance’s
trumpet on the A Train.

Each night reaching
a crescendo then fading
into Night Train’s diminuendo.

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