Big Band Preservation Society
Rare, the pan gold in the rivermud cloud,
rare the old soldier to rollcall: WWII’s
thinning ranks. Few too these dancers,
for whose breath will outlast this lithe man?
70-plus equals this much Lindy Hop left
in the long spine. Regard that lady graycoif’s
jitterbuggable pins: she knows, by God
and Grable, what gams are for. But what
that’s not mist will linger, after the rapture
whisks their vapor through Riverside
Elks Club walls? Reminisce, now, viscera:
geez, could Krupa pop those hot-pot drums.
Dig that copacetic snap—Goodman’s
whippet licorice. How the jive laced that
syrup, that neverbegone jazzborne jump.