D. H. Melhem noodled up and down her lines like Charlie Parker
blowing sixteenth notes past bow-tied Brahmans,
getting down faster than the Coney Island Express.
It’s a cool night walking home up Benefit Street
the luvwaft palpable
purple lilacs lacing the utmosphere
bricks clicking like hi-hats
high-heels climbing out of Big Daddy’s Taxi
on the Way to Somewhere,
no coat, no money, no slavery.