In Scarlet Town, Where I Was Born

If I thought I saw Bill Evans 

leaning like the smoky shadow of a crow 

over cracked piano keys, 

if I saw his narrow shoulders hunched, 

pale hands poised like two forgotten thoughts, 

his corduroy jacket wrinkled at the spine—

if I thought I saw all that,

I'd tell the horns to shut their goddamn mouths.

It only takes one smooth pull on a cigarette,

one long push—and the smoke smiles

dark thoughts of a room

you can't remember. 

That's what I said to the man at the door,

just before he tossed me and my military ID 

card onto the curb.

Mark Winkler was playing piano in a club across the street,

and the rain was falling on New Orleans