Epistola III

The trumpeter brazenly flashes the tarnished brass
While Velcro'ed against the red bricks and mortar
Amidst the ivories, taunt skins, and sticks
An invisible man wearing smudged spectacles
Plucks his scarred upright bass amply heard
Above the desultory applause of the allegiant
Bottles of lager and ale are chilled and ready
To mollify the nerves of yellowed white-collars
All slaves to slaves of Wall Street's vagary
Where the value of freedom is determined by
Volvos and portfolios, the shackles of America
Her fingers riffle through her hair in the dimness
Woven and ponytailed, draped across her flesh
The candlelight flutters across her African visage
As her elongated triune shadows choreograph
To the jazzmen's symphony of improvisations
Liken to the autumn moon shadows cast
On the rock gardens below Wetumpka's bridge
Her effeminate draw is ardently superior
To any barstool debutante on East Boulevard
However, who gives a damn, when all is undone
And, temperance's curfew has come and gone
Its 10 till midnight, an empty bottle and poet
Are intimately negotiating their next demarche
As a Creole reflection scuds across the sully glass
Ailinn's archetypes pirouette on the dance floor
So an old man sullenly announces, 'It is finished!"