To the man who listened

The piano played, his eyes were closed, body rocking to the beat,
The jazz diva's voice took off, his hands played the air,
He pursed his lips with satisfaction, breathing in the sound.
I watched him from the leather bench at the side of the room,
Seated in the back row he played invisibly,
Feet tapping now, walk-worn shoes on a polished floor,
White beard bristling on his heavy winter jacket,
Head swinging from side to side like a metronome,
Oblivious (I hope) to my curious sideways glances,
Oblivious to the gold watches and champagne glasses,
Forgetting cold streets and icy fingers for the warm music drifting,

During the interval he paused, contented, a maestro mid-performance,
Modest and avoiding the glances of his audience, poised and prepared.
Another patron, making for the bar in haste, knocked a chair, it scraped,
A sound that grated him from contemplation, offended his sense of place,
And so with caution, soundless, he inched it back into perfection,
For all I know, only I was witness to this short window on a man's character,
The champagne flowed, the laughter dimmed, the piano played, the diva sang,
And those worn old shoes began to tap the beat.