(for Herman Jackson)
Fingers fierce and fragiledance the porcelain fire away,setting ebony to ivoryagainst the white of evening lights…
Tonight, even the houseflieshave their sway and swagger,ghosts will stridewith secrets placed pocket-deepand everyone knowswhere the whiskey flows--
Cigarette to flame,fingertips to quiet lips,a melody unbroken beneaththe veil of whispering…She’s got that whiskey-blue sway
Across the ballroomher eyes are invitationsShe wears these blueslike a little black dress
Flowers peekfrom the tuck of curls,(all red and smiling)hips set to boogie and bass,a swing of tauntagainst eyes and their flight
And tonight patterns emergefrom black and whiteas an un-masked clownsits dim in the corner,chasing the madness to glow
The smoke and music fills,unmoving in its sway;unlost within the depths of corners,we become poetry writtenon cocktail napkinsand the rhythm that movesthe night to a crawling groove.