Speaking that voice you’ve heard for years
in dreams
.                      with out a face to recognize
on the street; a song
as much a part of yesterday
and tomorrow morning,

brilliant as your cast,
for now and ever;
.                                    the sea Saint;
.                                                        invisible,
.                                         unknown,
but on the tip of your tongue
in those sparse flourishes
of sonic density,
.                                 the brilliant static
that grew from the smeared blues and grays
on Earhart Boulevard

moving in the footsteps
of Moses but cutting a more elegant figure;
diamond stick pin and a deep wine suit,
his bearing
.                         uncut but refined
to his wing tips and French cuffs
that draw your eye from his

as he steps to the piano
.                                                 with the confidence
to brew a whirlwind through those Southern nights
if only for a Minit, before
making its way back
down to New Orleans.

Some Other Kind Of Index