If I Could Write a Book
Sally lit another Marlboro
stared at her Smith-Corona
drank sweet Passover wine
broke her writer’s fast on Kingsbridge Road
Her Elijah never came
dumped her for a Scarsdale beauty
with youth & class
Alone at the age of thirty-five
her brain cells & sexuality craved attention
The RCA turntable in motion—
fingers pounded to the beat & heat
of Miles Davis & his quintet
Like the song
if she could write a book she would
Keys couldn’t keep up with Miles & his band—
her past & present didn’t make sense
nouns argued with pronouns
verbs cried for help
& adverbs were nowhere to be found
Ideas gone askew
paperback nonsense
scattered by her feet
She finished her wine
put out her last cigarette
said good night to Miles & his quintet
ripped her unfinished page
from the Smith-Corona
before turning off the light
At Last
(sung by Etta James)
She moves through phases,
tags behind
his earthly shadow.
He leaves by daylight—
follows his orbit
outside her door.
Inside her head,
anticipation still spins.
She’s in love,
waited too long
for him to come.
The blues
bring on her winter’s night,
sways to the rhythm
of a hot summer’s eve.
In the shower,
his evidence
dances down the drain.
He’ll leave
by daybreak.
Should she ask him to stay?
Her crescent smile waxes.
(Published in Jerry Jazz Musician, July 3, 2021.)
Moonlight Serenade
Charlie was in bed,
tubes attached to his body,
listened to cartoons
on a nineteen-inch screen,
thought of Sophia,
his “Belle of Flatbush.”
When la luna was full,
Charlie used to sing
Moonlight Serenade
outside Sophia’s gate.
They’d slow-dance
to Glenn Miller’s rendition.
He’d relax his rhythm,
hold Sophia closer,
recall how safe she felt.
Her soft brown curls
would drape on his shoulder—
her smoky eyes—
stelle colorate, tinted stars
over a make-believe Brooklyn sky.
His protective hold couldn’t save her
from breast cancer twenty years ago,
their two sons from Viet Nam’s death call,
or their daughter from her husband’s fists.
A massive stroke took Sonny,
his last living friend.
His relatives were either dead
or couldn’t care less.
Charlie was in bed,
tubes attached to his body,
alone—except for routine visits from
the nursing home staff,
wondered if Sophia would be there for him
when he leaves for the morgue.
He hummed Moonlight Serenade,
but a dry cough cut his tune short.
Sadness, age, and high fever
drained his cognition and will to live.
His memory was of the past,
not the present.
He prayed for Death’s visit—
Death would wear a white coat,
walk past the rooms,
make decisions on who’s to come
and who’s to stay.
But Death forgot about him—
perhaps Death’s eyesight was fading
when he came by last week,
took Hector instead.
Tina, his favorite nurse,
no longer visited him—
was in critical condition
due to a new virus going around.
He closed his eyes,
saw Glenn Miller and his band
perform Moonlight Serenade
at the Waldorf Astoria.
Everything was in Technicolor.
Sophia,
radiant and youthful,
rose from her table.
She came closer,
her smoky eyes—
stelle colorate, tinted stars
over a make-believe Brooklyn sky.
By the entrance,
a man in a white coat
checked his clipboard,
greeted Charlie with a smile
and opened the gate.
March 2020
(First published in Tribes Virtual Open Mic: A Gathering in the Time of Covid-19, Set two-week of April 16, 2020)