Poetry
(Swans - September 23, 2013)
From the hotel bar
they watch the war,
the reporter's voice
a smooth roar.
On a segmented sofa
a boy-haired woman
sits, glancing at her
wristwatch, smoking.
Over her an alto
sax vies with a trumpet,
brushes on the snare,
le jazz hot, piped-in.
From the skylight
enormous stripes of sun
on the centerpiece mobile
shaped like a shamrock:
an old man walking
between the banisters
guards his face
from a ray of glare.
The reporter's voice
and the jazz
are there to ignore,
no one at the bar.
Then the priest arrives
in his bone-white collar
and he laughs en route
to the banquet floor.
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About the Author
David Francis has produced three albums of songs, one of poems, ALWAYS/FAR, a chapbook of lyrics and drawings, and the film Village Folksinger. His poems and stories have appeared in a number of US and UK magazines. His Web site is http://davidfrancismusic.com. He lives in New York City. (back)