INTERMEZZO

It was always
in New Orleans
you returned
to the blues
muted language
increased by St. Charles St.
in a blinded sun storm
sitting on a bench
someone reads the news
playing solitaire
and free canasta
feeding the sparrows
in your own horizon
reading the Fleurs of Baudelaire
hearing the four-handed piano
and a Creole French tune
from a bacchanalia's bar window
discovering love songs
in a roaring sonata
breathing from hallways
of a star's lost time.