Resonance An American Sonnet

The resonance of the old vampire’s voice holds the soul of the French Quarter; Thick as a rich pot of red beans and rice just waiting to be devoured; You can hear the succulent sound of jazz in each syllable he utters; A shadowed grin tasting of chicory, his true nature remains hidden; Vibrating at a different frequency every sound is a spectacle; As you move about town all you see is him, pressing into your subconscious; ‘Laissez les bon temps rouler..’ drips, all you can manage is ‘Oui, cher.’