Final Call Poem by Pasquale DiMeola
Final Call
It is the blare of a saxaphone
Sounding like an infant in the night
Agitated by the encompassing darkness
Kicking the imaginary lid
Off the hermetically sealed coffin
Of a smoked filled jazz lounge
Releasing patrons one and all
Leglessly floating into the holy streets
Anticipating another filmy sunrise
With the sleepwalkers of ambiguity.
Friday, September 14, 2012
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4/19/2024 12:50:51 PM # 1.0.0.1119
