PILLOW WORSHIP

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

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