she wrote poetry like jazz

she wrote poetry like jazz

she wrote poetry like jazz
late at night in smoke filled rooms
hot horns blowing cool breezes
music swirling swelling fading
never heard again
words pumping from her pen like gasoline

she lit up the night with conversation
about people i didn’t know
ideas i'd never thought of
places i’d never been nor ever go
books i’d never read and never will
thoughts crackling through my head like a grassfire

she let me walk with her once
to the corner for a package of kents
no shoes - skirt clinging tight - blouse unbuttoned
undisturbed by the night
unaffected by the store clerk who called her by name
then looked at me and smiled

under streetlights she danced like a child
in the middle of the night
perfume on the breeze like incense in the air
i fell to my knees and prayed like a schoolboy
to this lady of perpetual nightlife
who kissed me and disappeared into the dawn

~ welker ~
(This work originally appeared in Scrivener's Pen)