A cold sidewalk
paves the way to
a club:
Blue Note on 52nd.
Tunes lift from the paper
on the glassy updraught
from beneath his feet.
It's hot here in Birdland.
A shot stings the
cool as he lifts
his horn to play.
Where's Lester?
Shootin' up in the
road as the band
stays silent.
No money tonight, Miles.
James liked to compile lists. Ever since he was a schoolboy he'd carefully noted down places he'd visited, movies he'd seen, records he'd bought, books he'd read, letters he'd written and received, money he'd earned and spent; even notes on the weather. His lists grew to fill many exercise books, and on occasion he'd look through them and reflect on how, like the great diarists of the past, he was compiling a valuable document of social history. Even in his final illness he was able to record, with a shaky hand, how he'd spent the past three days in hospital.
After James died, his lists were all thrown away.