She stands
and the night spills
through her fingers

as electric connections and
neon musings
etch her face

in scarlet razored
lines and lace.
Deliberate action takes me

to her private circle and
I bask in the sun
that is her smile, her eyes.

Foraging for her
affections,
I’m disappointed,

denied once again
the epiphany
of her loving aspirations.

But I know the
right of it.
I know the blues.

And Lucille’s singing
’em
like I knew
she would.