Let’s go to the Latin Quarter,
listen to jazz, read poems, cross the border,
in resistance we’ll slip through
as they shut the door, in no order.
We’ll schoozy a little, talk idle,
consider the blues, the ache of folly,
the impossible adieus as we sip
from our chalice of melancholy.
When it’s late we’ll play music, dress up:
fedora, feather, fandango
– flicker in the streetlight,
silhouettes of defiance in a tango.
If the stylus should slip from the groove
we’ll click our heels, not rise
with the vinyl. We’ll abide, hip by hip,
swinging our great continental thighs.