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Ain’t it the Truth

choirs of insects serenade night
couples bury faces in lovers’ hair
distant train’s cry soars through dark
town settles into silence
one face peers through half-opened window
seeking a single light

as Mose Allison sings in the background
“Your mind is on vacation, but your mouth
is working overtime”
story of my life thinks the listener
wishing there was someone available
to share his “overtime”

Allison launches into
“Seventh Son of a Seventh Son”
auditor mutters I should be so lucky
trashes his whiskey bottle
collapses on the couch
slips into muted snores

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by .Michael L. Newell

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Michael L. Newell sometimes confuses himself with a poet. Old former English teachers sometimes do such things. He does, though, love jazz. No confusion there.

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