The slow chords of jazz

Fill my ears as

I sit on the grass

Watching clouds above me pass.

I feel out of time.

To clarify, as I hear slow bells chime,

I feel in the wrong age,

Shoved onto the wrong stage.

I’m nostalgic for corsets,

Not the clothes of today where flesh is a surfeit,

And crackling records

And old, twisted words

Like ‘britches’.

And walking across bridges

With men dressed in top hats

And bottles made from glass.

I’m yearning for honour,

For when streets were calmer,

And knights who saved maids,

Defended reputations with blades.

I feel in the wrong age,

Shoved onto the wrong stage.

With my hand aching,

For the sound of a quill pen staking

Its claim on thick paper

In the soft flicker of a taper

As starlight filters through

Thick air of deepest blue.

I’m dreaming of Jazz bars

And enormous cars

With the roof down

As we cruise around town.

Dances in the town hall,

A thin veil of smoke over all,

And men in uniform requesting

The hand of girls who, despite protesting

They’re not that kind of girl, dance.

And at the end of the evening, romance.

A walk home in the moonlight

Before a chaste kiss goodnight.

I feel in the wrong age,

Shoved onto the wrong stage.

The right time for me?

Anywhere in history.