the potent lyrical potion
palpable in the air,
tossing her soft hair
from restrictive bobby pins
her mother pinned in.
She leans
against the anachronism of a bar
until her young head falls
in a beam of artificial moonlight,
a stream of liquid sunshine,
dusty souls fall through her.
She is Heaven.
Heaven waits -
hanging off the trumpet’s hiss,
lounging in the bass’ lisp,
tethered to the saxophone
and his bleating, bleeding, blurring
baritone bombardment,
bullets of notes blistering
past Heaven’s wholesome stockings.
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