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There was a light behind in the window

And candles on all the tables, last time

Jansen was here. It was after closing

And he played for half an hour just to me

And Rosalie and James. Wearing a tie,

A dickey, and black velvet waistcoat

That I had only seen him in at wakes.

December. He played “April in Paris”,

“Blue in Green”, “In a Sentimental Mood”

And “Stella by Starlight”, and then he played

For a long time in a mode I didn't know,

An extemporisation, chords of which

Troubled me for hours after, no part

Of which I can clearly remember, but which

Made Rosalie cry a little, quietly,

As she moved back and forth behind the bar.

I remember though that it touched upon

A thought I had had just around that time

Of picking up and leaving town, of going

South into the light and the storms and heat,

Finding a quiet locale to blanch myself.

Something latin in it, like a song out

Of the Dia de Muertos. Death was there

Already, in his figure, in the gaze

He sent over the bar as he performed.

When he had done he sat there at the keys

For some time. I brought him a double scotch,

Which he took. It moved in his eyes. He rose

And kissed James and I, and kissed Rosalie

Tenderly on the hand, and straightening,

Adjusted his white shirt and his bowtie.

He went down in the street and found a car.

An hour later a gust of drizzling wind

Whipped the threshold and I shut the place up,

And drove Rosalie halfway back up the

Grand Reservoir to where her father lived.