In the photograph
you sit on a jail bench with a friend,
taffeta skirt whispering where it falls over your knees,
a mink stole snugs your shoulders,
your upper arms. Your friend’s dress has
sombrero-like trimming that rustles
at its hem. She too is warmed by a fur stole
as she turns to you to console.
Neither of you is in a right place.
Behind, a barred window stares and cold blocks
of white tile offer only an icy silence.
Are you wondering “What next?”
Are you reliving the evening’s performance,
the applause from the audience of black and white,
the arrest?
In the photograph
you sit on a jail bench with a friend,
taffeta skirt whispering where it falls over your knees,
a mink stole snugs your shoulders,
your upper arms. Your friend’s dress has
sombrero-like trimming that rustles
at its hem. She too is warmed by a fur stole
as she turns to you to console.
Neither of you is in a right place.
Behind, a barred window stares and cold blocks
of white tile offer only an icy silence.
Are you wondering “What next?”
Are you reliving the evening’s performance,
the applause from the audience of black and white,
the arrest?
You are bent forward, eyes fixed to the floor,
morose, hands clasped in your generous lap.
Will your gritty early years have honed
a hard enough edge to see you through this outrage?
You will
emerge
from this.
Verve awaits.
Cole Porter Song Book
awaits.
Mocambo and Monroe
await.
Seven more Song Books.
This jail house scene
tells more about the country
than about you.
In 25 years, you’ll sing
in the White House.
This moment,
painful but temporary,
is smaller than you.
Store it and move on. . .
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