“A pint of stout, please.”
In Gotham`s White Horse
As I linger wistfully beside his fading mural`s memories
Dylan Thomas` eyes entreat mine, come closer.
With hand-cupped ear, I slant forward straining to hear
What? A muted vanishing voice?
A euphonic winged verse almost imperceptible?
Abandoned by inspiration, a fallow force, I muse:
If these walls could only talk.
This once lyric haunt
Near to espresso scented venues many now departed
These then cigarette-plumed hosts
Imprinted with an archipelago of consonance rhythm and strophe
From the jazz fueled beat troubadours of Lower Broadway
Were backlit with the echoes of hipster combos:
tinkling ivoryboards beguiling pulsating alto vibes
hi-hats` crisp tap taps throaty trombone slide riffs
Improvisational tapestries of strolling bebop influent phrases–
Blow man, blow! Cool, real cool.
Transcendent wandering balladeers inwardly unsettled
Inebriated with song syncopation innovation
Wend through liquid landscapes
Seductive liquors arrayed as if posing for photos.
Time altered hours dissolve in mahogany bars
As word musicians scat their wares
With unpunctuated licks a capella
Over bubbles of beer and whiskey chasers
While escalating soliloquies ignore the need for a listener.
Noble invention intermingled with decay.
Now, with evening closing its eyes in repose
Neon flutters last call.
If these walls would only talk.
“Listen, did you hear that?”