St. James Infirmary

I didn't know, then, that I was standing in a Louis Armstrong song, a life expiring on a slab. I didn't know where the boomerang of the circular drive would land the body, the procession to the next life.

I did know atonement. Or knew that it was coming.

And then rebirth.

At the same time, a calm. A change. A shudder to slough off the ashes. To make something of my fuck up, if that's what it was.

Standing inside the St. James Infirmary, looking toward the steps I wouldn't walk up again, the blues song had already been written and well trod.

But blue wasn't the mind's mood. I wasn't looking back at the miles on my running shoes. Or the Old Testament. I wasn't thinking about the rock in the woods where I sat reading Beowulf. I wasn't worried about conjugating verbs or dress code or hair length.

I wasn't looking back at the life ending..."Let her go! Let her go! God Bless her...where ever she may be..."

I was looking forward. Consoled now by Satchmo.