The Remains of Giants

I like to sit and listen to music made by men
who have been dead for years,
and in some cases decades.
A few of them had been addicts
to the same mistress,
killed by one-sided desire,
a few of them survived their ill-thought
romance.
Those details don't matter,
don't affect my enjoyment of the sounds
streaming from my speakers.
A tenor sax emerges through the groove,
dominates the aural spectrum,
a dry ride articulates
a swung eighth note.
Vamping on the mode is the crystalline sound
of a man
whose hands could have played Satie
in grand concert halls
but decided to pursue his craft
in small, smokey rooms.