Waiting and Fasting

Another shot of bourbon,

engine idles like it should.

She is coming tonight,

armed with her band of angels.

And I have no defenses,

replaced by muted trumpet,

alto saxophone, piano of

Flamenco Sketches.

Dressed in yellow,

she holds a dripping brush to my door,

Nefertiti for April.

I am first born.

So I wait.

I fast.

Dusk.

Night.

She never came.

Winter ‘79,  

Bisbee