Listening to Johnny Hodges’ “Texas Blues”
The notes nearly drip with humidity.
It’s too hot, says Hodges’ alto sax,
to do anything but let yourself be bathed
by the scent of mistflowers on a shrub.
Surely, a glass is sweating on a table nearby
as that sax groans like a lovesick katydid
and the piano ripples a salacious laugh.
The music undulates its generous flanks.
Then the clarinet—listen to that licorice stick preach!
It’s the sax, tho, that woos me, bill and coos me. Man,
that silver-tongued alto can sweet-talk! When I set down
my drink, the ice falls so hard, it bruises the gin.
Daily Injection Blues
The saxophone screams the sting
of medicine burrowing in.
The clarinet’s moan is my moan.
Something to thin the blood.
Because it’s thickened with all
the boiling? “Texas Blues” rues
the rattlesnake fang of the needle
striking the belly’s pale pillow.
Ice cubes should be bumping
together on the slick, circular
dance floor of a sweaty glass,
not soothing salty skin.
There is nothing to do but groan
the grumbling rumble of an alto
tumbling toward deepest blue.
