A private salvation session with my melancholy baby

Midnight and migraine. Morpheus comes not, weaving
no omens, oracles, nor orgies with nymphs in the Helicon
spring! I, once, am told, cold beds, as such, does murder

muses sent to tickle my toes, to seduce, to turn on, to arouse
the dormant thoughts, which now give no sweet nothing
but monotonous moans. At last, I push the button for a

session of my private salvation — My Melancholy Baby
runs wild in Charlie Parker’s licentious fingers dancing
on the sax, like a beast in black, breaking free in a wave

of improvised lyrical vibrato, swiveling and swelling up
sadness and madness, sealing lips groaning quotidian
trivialities, cold civility and dull domesticity – all! in one go.

by Kathy