Down sat Bud, raised his hands, br the Deuces silenced, the lights br lowered, and breath gathered br for the coming storm. Then nothing, br not a single note. Outside starlight br from heaven fell unseen, a quarter- br moon, promised, was no show, br ditto the rain. Late August of '50, br NYC, the long summer of abundance br and our new war. In the mirror behind br the bar, the spirits—imitating you— br stared at themselves. At the bar br the tenor player up from Philly, shut br his eyes and whispered to no one, br 'Same thing last night.' Everyone br been coming all week long br to hear this. The big brown bass br sighed and slumped against br the piano, the cymbals held br their dry cheeks and stopped br chicking and chucking. You went br back to drinking and ignored br the unignorable. When the door br swung open it was Pettiford br in work clothes, midnight suit, br starched shirt, narrow black tie, br spit shined shoes, as ready br as he'd ever be. Eyebrows br raised, the Irish bartender br shook his head, so Pettiford eased br himself down at an empty table, br closed up his Herald Tribune, br and shook his head. Did the TV br come on, did the jukebox bring us br Dinah Washington, did the stars br keep their appointments, did the moon br show, quartered or full, sprinkling br its soft light down? The night's br still there, just where it was, just br where it'll always be without br its music. You're still there too br holding your breath. Bud walked out.