Lester Young at a Table in Birdland in 1952, Warming Up His Horn
based on a photograph by Gleg Derujinsky
by George Kalamaras
Okay, he’s breathing birds down from heaven
into his sax again. Okay, his pocket hanky is folded
in the shape of a celestial landing pad. Alright, he’s holding
his horn—the buttons and keys like tiny discs—
as if he has removed and is now publicly displaying his spine.
The glass on the table before him is nearly empty,
as if to ask the gods to fill it. As if to say a whiskey
and water is enough to make cruel skies cry. Prez
has the stature of any marked man. A marked card
in a deck. The Jack of Clubs knowing it longs to be both
that and the Jack of Hearts at once.
Alright, the birds are breathing through the walls of Birdland
all the way into the cave-rush in his chest. Alright,
his fingers house a wedding band, telling the world
not to come between him and his music. Okay,
I find myself. Find myself contemplating his socks. The socks
we don’t see but know he must be wearing. A fabric
woven from the bleary bodies of birds. Perhaps calf garters
to hold up the weight of the world his saxophone is
also holding up so the world won’t crush us during the solace
of two sets in four hours on a Saturday night in Harlem.
Lester sits at a table, warming up his horn. How warming up
is also cool-blue-pocket-hanky hip. And how everyone
is everybody else, although he’s the only one
in the photograph. He’s the only one in the photo
about to make his way back to—into—me.
And here I stand corrected, stunned, and dumb. One man, one
horn—it appears—could save the world if he could
but press the right keys. Blow birds back into the blissful
bantering of Birdland. Say the world just right.