On Watching Diana Krall In Rio

The bass player must consider
the music differently.  With
some diffidence he must view
the lyrics, free,
while he is similar to
a train constrained by the tracks
which wade through city,
cut a chasm into the drums,
trill-less in the piano’s grace.
It’s just the bass, footsteps
on a rainy November evening,
church bells on the hour,
coffee brewing before decisions
are made on a foggy morning,
the pace which never wins
the race, yet, like the timing belt
in an automobile, it is impossible
to function without.