Jazz Is: 34 – ‘Poutin’
It was a foggy night. Or a long night, and my heart was foggy. The bright lights glared. The crazy cat stared. All around the city no one waited. From across the bay the foghorn made no call. I walked. Came to a club. Something moaned inside. I went in. There were smoke signals. Whiskey. The bass got thumbed, hummed. Through the cymbals I heard the piano man stick the keys and the sax man wail his song. And it was good. And I walked again. Maybe Honey would come home, I thought. Maybe the morning would come.