At a loss for words, the poet speaks off the cuff
troubled by events she witnessed at a nightclub
a murder backstage, nobody could hear the noise
loud music playing covered over his voice, gruff
off of cigar smoke, whiskey and a baritone
singing pitch, chorus since a child within the pub
soprano at first, alto, tenor, then his voice
forever now lost, a quarrel and then a fight
over in seconds, strangled to death for a phone
remember Tyrone, he was no boxer, no sound
worked its way on stage, the poet remained hidden
of course, she confessed to what she saw, her voice drowned
re-imagining the struggle, all so sudden
despite the quiet interrogation room, might
she have mistaken the details of the killer
there, backstage, was dark, she was hidden in shadows
here things get murky, everyone was dressed in white
even the man's face was a blur, a salt pillar
possibly, Lot's wife, no, she was confused, as time
obeyed other rules, distracting thoughts, black widows
enter deep inside her consciousness, to invite
the least suspicion, the capitan let her go home
suffering trauma, distress, the scene of a crime
poets connect words as ideas within a net
each time she looked back, her memory went blank, lame
accusations rose, the district attorney set
keepers to observe her movements, as if a game
should elicit her to remember, a poem
of murder and rage, she felt trapped within a cage
forgotten her words, her strange talent to describe
forgotten the scene, reenacted by police
tranquility lost, terror kept her off the stage
how she waited there, in the shadows, the concert
exactly why then was she backstage, to imbibe
cognac with the band, she appeared with the deceased
under a white lie, an all-access pass, as press
for some strange reason, she went backstage to report
for the foreign press, what she saw, under duress
No comments:
Post a Comment