stutters old apologies, stupefied
still by consequences. What calms it all:
Kelly Duke’s delicate hands—dignified
as Astaire’s dancing—on keyboard. He calls
back to blues from summer of ’65.
He does this on Facebook, new century’s
after-hours club, his whole body alive
in smooth rhythm with his gliding boogie.
Played all the clubs, Little Rock
to Memphis,
his soft voice recalls. I do too, glances
of gentle rain—memory’s synthesis
blurring and clearing my tired eyes—chances
challenging fate, feeling life’s just begun.
It was fun, the maestro
offers. Have fun…
Roger Armbrust
June 26, 2013
