© 2011 ryan J. Cox

The Elizabeth Taylor Nashville Blues

The night air is sticky
pregnant
with something invisible

through the open window
bob dylan sneaks in
he tips his cap as he dances
a one-legged waltz
past us and into the kitchen

I try to whistle a cheery tune
but my broken teeth
only permit
a bluesy kazoo
saturated
with the hopes and failures
of imaginary national heroes
and Elizabeth Taylor after National Velvet

so it's come to this
someone lonesome declares
from the kitchen
perhaps it's bob again
trying to reheat silver-foiled hot dish
months out of season

there are ghosts in this room
but that's hardly surprising
if it were up to me
I'd haunt you too

you tell me about
a world full of empty hats
who dream about tweed
and want to be writers
it sounds like the kind of place
where jazz goes to die

when the sun rises
I'll be gone
rambling south somewhere
off to Nashville if Memphis won't have me
and someday I'll get the hang
of Wednesday nights