At a late-night dive in the Latin Quarter,
Bulb above our rickety table is blown.
Wormy flame stills in a red jar by the jug
Full of sweating Boréale. Neon moons

Through giant loft glass. Islands of
Guac-covered nachos stay on our plate.
The maple floor is a rink after a game.
This jazz trio plays just in front of us.

Wormy dreads groove as black Medusa
Plucks her double-bass and Muhammad
Taps the cymbal with his glazed stick —
His focus on now contorting an O-face.

The trio leader, a white-meat shorty
With an alto sax strapped to his pinstripes,
Wears khakis and New Balance kicks.
Planetary shadows dangle under his lids.

He stares into an abyss or pantheon.
Miniature fingers swing off buttons
Not like a monkey but like libra scales
Or a pocket watch; piglet cheeks

Candy to apples. He moves blood from
Brass into ambrosiac vibes as Justine
Sips her blonde ale, leans out of the light.
She shows no sign of disturbing the trio.

Joe Bishop