they sat in the low light blue smoke of the room
and, after a while, running out of things to say,
he picked up a guitar and started to strum
some rudimentary chords, plucking triads and tripping harmonics
and, believing he was, of a sudden, some old blues man,
he began to throw in some hems, some hums, some uh-huhs
with such a confidence that she (and even he) began to imagine
him either genius or fool.
she sipped at the wine and wondered – perhaps this is what they call jazz?