Thursday, September 27, 2012
Bobby sings "Sweet Jesus" in his sleep.
The words don’t wake him,
the music does. Melindra likes her jazz
churlish like Chris Conner,
or June Christy, from old Stan Kenton
big band memorial days . . .
You’re not funny! she declares, just odd.
He tried to make it better, but is
hard pressed to think of more
like Anita O’Day, yet not her,
she’s too gone to be even near
the same dais. Without her favorite man
blowing softly before and behind
what she has saved to say . . .
Can’t call up names this early,
I have a full day of classes
and an all-night shift. Aren’t you glad,
he quips, I’m not there no more
anyhow, anyway, nowhere
on the ward . . .
Melindra rolls over and puts him in her
and rocks as he rolls under
her thighs and the thunder comes next
if not last.
And so Sweet Jesus grew to be a man
whose followers followed him
sweetly and always gently everywhere.
(27 September 2012)
copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander