The Arcade (poem)

I grew up at the Arcade--
no, not the nickelodeon sort,
though it had its reels as well,
I suppose--no, the one down on Calhoun,
at the corner of South Main.

My memory flickers on, begins to roll,
and I see its modest square face
looking west towards the Mississippi;
it was young then, so recently born
out of the exuberance
of the war to end all wars.

My mother and I shared
one of the luxury suites,
one of the seven with a private bath,
and I would help her make gin
in our four-legged tub.

Old soldiers would buy it
for a dollar a pint and then take
my mother out to dance at a club
on Beale Street and return after
flushed and smiling.
Her legs were pretty then.

Now, I hear they're razing
the old Arcade, its face scarred
and written upon, its windows blinded
with boards, its bones sagging,
as old man river keeps rolling on.
And my memory flickers once,
and winks out.

The Musician (poem)

With clean flute, I would pierce the holy heart,
     the bright notes, a petal-strewn path through God;
     or, with low moan of bass, I'd play a part
     to lull the whining cosmos towards a nod;
yes, to bend green trees to sing new songs,
     I'd play both black and white, those keys in strife,
     to weld in chords the unruly notes in throngs,
     enticing leaf-laden branch as joyous fife.

But how this I say "I" when song begins?
And when lips with ivory and wood first kiss,
     and fingers' tarantella first descends,
     how find myself at the heart of the tryst?

So when love's motion's begun, the quivering bow at play,
     then comes the breathless one, the man without a name.

Synchronicity (poem)

Because it was high noon of the twelfth day

of the twelfth month of my year of years,

and because I, too, heard Aleppo's bells

and saw a haloed face within the sun-paled bay,

and because you looked, our moment nearing,

into widening eyes with wonder--we could not tell

that somewhere in the orchard

an apple fell

unheard.