Sunlight on my voice
brings out the taste of the last last night,
the final over-the-shoulder look
before the plunge into the post-blues flow,
a Mississippi River dried to dusty air
where riverboat musicians honk zombie gas into
mouthpieces, reeds, and plastic cups with the hole cut
out of the bottom and held up to the mouth,
a trumpet improvised out of charm and out of a place
that does not keep the dead.
