Dusk

by Craig Kirchner
Published by The Argyle, March ‘24

Skylines boogie down quickly,
clouds rush by like Cossacks.
There is a funeral, there is jazz.
Bourbon Street swells appropriately,
for a local musician has died.

The porches above the streets
are full of revelry and beads.
The procession flows like Owsley’s acid
from gutter to neon gutter.
The dancing mimed, surreal,

the colors, absinthe, purple pinwheel.
The evening air is thick,
with the smell of piss and roses.
No mourner really, tourist,
though I did like his music.

Dark molasses caressing
the obedient ivory keys.
Ecstasy teased memories stored in
the marrow, orgasmic rebirths
that kept bars full for the evening.

Most funerals are earlier in the day.
He apparently loved dusk,
a jazz time of day,
and friends partying as skylines fade.
I wonder when the wake will end,

and the next begin, at the wine-aged sax,
the horse drawn hearse, his dusk, the passion
second-lining, rising primal from the streets,
the sexual heat from his entourage
as skylines boogie down quickly.

Craig Kirchner has been nominated three times for a Pushcart, has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels and has been recently published in Chiron Review, Main Street Rag and more than a hundred other journals.

• @craigkiirchner