Jazz analogy

Jazz winks at you like the departing train's caboose lights are swallowed up by the sulphuric fog.

Jazz smells like pipe smoke wedded to a weathered brown leather jacket bought in the Salvation Army on West St. on December 27th, 1978 just before the snow began to fall and just after your mother said, "Get out of this house!"

Jazz taste like Jim Beam on your lover's lips and tongue when you've given up the sauce

Jazz is a medicine ball catching you in the gut at full speed and you are only 13 years old. From the gym floor, the girders turn to silverfish and your back slips between the polished hardwood, while all around you the hum of humanity slumps and peaks.

Jazz is that first warm day after a record snow fall winter. Close your eyes and you shed 10-14-18 years as your cheek warms and glows.

Jazz is the love you gave up and you tell everyone you don't hold out hope that that love will return, but you do.