Waiting and Fasting

Another shot of bourbon

and the engine idles like it should.

She is coming tonight

armed with her band of angels.

I have no defenses,

replaced by muted trumpet,

alto saxophone,

piano of Flamenco Sketches.

She holds a dripping brush to my door

dressed in yellow

Nefertiti for April.

I am first born.

So I wait.

I fast.

Dusk.

Night.

She never came.

Bisbee, AZ

October, 1980