Lazy humid Lake Pontchartrain
breezes slip sideways
through turquoise louvered doors
past a cat, on a stool with its legs hanging
like green tangled moss
as the man, deep with pillow worship
lays still, breathing soft, his hands open and flat
holds court with dreams of last night
the jazz holding tight
the band cutting through
the girl singing, radiant with darkness
painted on her lips, possessing the ears
drawing them like nets bringing the catch
she spins the web, feeding the dancers, the listeners
the evil forming in eyes
till night became morning and streets welcomed
strays and people lost unsure of time
wandering to Jackson Square finding sleep
like the man in the apartment
turning without waking, hearing her voice
speak his name.
Roger Singer 