Blakesong

Seeing him first, his sonic exuberance
proving that Eubie did it better
than any--not just the music
but life as well, lasting
almost a century, spending
the time to perform, compose,
enjoy the only job he ever had to know.
Sneaking off at 13, taking stage, first

in Baltimore, already a pro surrounded
by those of the oldest profession: he helped
fill time for men who lounged on couches,
pulling slugs of whiskey from flasks, waiting
for the girl of--if not their dreams--at least
their choice that night. Later,
people whistled the show tunes, but
his true calling was as

the Rachmaninoff
of Ragtime: long fingers doing what few
can hope to, created perfect
stops, gaps leading to rolling trills, rollicking
dances on the black keys as he ran along
accidentals of sharps and flats, making music
reflecting a joyous life, his energy.
Watching him play on that Manhattan stage

with Alberta Hunter singing--both seeming
unaware of the crowd gathered about them--
Eubie at 88, she then 80, almost two centuries
of experience. I wasn't
in a music hall that night. Instead, I stood
at the edge of Mt. Olympus,
looking up and having the chance
to eavesdrop on gods as they played.