Scrambled¹ eggs and whiskey

    in the false-dawn light. Chicago，

    a sweet town， bleak²， God knows，

    but sweet. Sometimes. And

    weren't we fine tonight？

    When Hank set up that limping

    treble roll behind me

    my horn just growled³ 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.