With A Rhythm Found

Fingers of sound steal round the room. Notes, carpenters carving out an existence, hollow a space the next fills. The trumpet's tangible timbre spills articulate and thick, tainted with gloom, washing the room. Jazz is a resistance, accounts of tribulation traded. It's a thrill. Here no one worries about payin’ the bill. But, they sure as hell don’t assume. This place is an escape, part of the persistence. Music keeps on, alive on the trailing trill. Nowhere else to go but not a single foot still.