Scrambled Eggs and Whiskey

Hayden Carruth

Scrambled eggs and whiskey 

in the false-dawn light. Chicago, 

a sweet town, bleak, God knows, 

but sweet. Sometimes. And 

weren’t we fine tonight? 

When Hank set up that limping 

treble roll behind me 

my horn just growled and I 

thought my heart would burst. 

And Brad M. pressing with the 

soft stick, and Joe-Anne 

singing low. Here we are now 

in the White Tower, leaning 

on one another, too tired 

to go home. But don’t say a word, 

don’t tell a soul, they wouldn’t 

understand, they couldn’t, never 

in a million years, how fine, 

how magnificent we were 

in that old club tonight.