The girl in the orange dress

is a forties record,

Betty-Booping on the concrete stage.

Somebody leaves Brazilian rials

in her tip jar, pink velvet mouth

open for twenties.

 

The soprano impersonates

a trumpet in mid-set,

the sound wacky and exact.

She’s impressed chatty

teen queens, and couples

sunk in low slung chairs,

shaded in too much introspection.

 

She’s lost her set list, she says,

then reaches deep inside

the purple keyboard case.

She’s found conga rhythm!

Everyone rises, delight a contagion,

body-to-body, note to note.

 

Levitation is possible here.

 

The crowd calls

for more more!

O, so jumpy with caffeine,

and wild dog-off-leash joy.

 

When the last song fades,

a half serving

of moon remains.

One paper cup rolls, and rolls,

Ping-Ponged by the night.