BILL NELSON
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Friday night at the Kings Arms
The cattle herd of warmed-up trumpets
razzle the smoke waiting for noon to catch night.
Thump, the cousin of in
the crucial moment dissembles
the shrill, his glee low like a heart throb.
We bang black pots, stamp heels,
heat hands for the fashion of it all.
The rim shot echoes like colt-fired cordite,
a burnt cigarette spat to the floor,
gravy drips from the rafters.
Limbs trailing, they leap from fire exits,
howl in the manner of wolves
surprised at bones, fragile and husky.
