by Bob Thimmesh
for Ray S.
wrapped by a horn’s husk
between the muffled cadence
of imitation ivory, then
dangles like a green pepper
at the end of a painter’s string.
crisp cymbals and a stiletto stutter
of breathy innuendo
flowing through the bell and valve
of Morgan’s lament;
enter and depart
of bass and drum–
a sometime dowdy pair that shed
their homebody socks for a night on the town–
the sparse cloud of the horn’s contrail,
the disjointed guttural
of the swaggering sax.
They complete a dosey-doh;
bow to each other
behind the conversation of wind
the dialog of string; engagement
that winds side-to- side
in and out
savoring chords above the flat of E, sensing
joy and pathos on the other side of midnight.
Bob Thimmesh is a retired businessman who enjoys spending most of his time writing poetry and fiction. He is currently working on his memoir and lives in central Minnesota.