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.’
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