Django, 2:48 AM

The all-night college radio station
is playing a shuffle mix
of current rock,
poetry, jazz, stupid PSAs.

Right now, something
by Django Reinhardt.

I take note
of this moment.

Nothing
is happening.  
There is a wild-haired
silhouette in the corner mirror.

Django is comping along
while Stephane Grappelli
is tearing it up
happy hot-club stylee
on fiddle.

I have no role to play
in the delicious moment of waiting
for the next moment
to shuffle up.

I don’t have a role to play;
nevertheless, I’ve used the “I”
four times now
in speaking of the moment,
five if you count
the one in quotes.  

A smoking man, Django was.
He would have called a break now,
Would have lit a cigarette,
probably one pulled from a hardshell case.

On my left hand, 
the middle and ring fingers
suddenly, 
obscurely,
ache.