Late Hours

Late Hours

Lights going off signal the late hours
Here no stars shine and ripple
Darkness drapes the colors
And silence blankets the air
Thoughts lay down their limbs
And certain emotions
Worry, wickedness
And sadness
Give off their weighty scents
Not to relieve anyone
But to descend
Into the fatigue of souls
And uninvited nightmares.

Fortunately this very late hour here
Softens the blow with drinks
And the sound of Bill Evans
Playing his piano
Miles Davis blowing his trumpet
John Coltrane flowering me
With his saxophone
And Billy Holiday
Singing her blues
And the thought of you
Sultry, sensitive and sensual
Reminding me it’s bedtime
And time for naked love.

Copyright © 2023 Charles Edward York
No part of this poem may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way or form or by any means electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise without the written permission of the author.*