Weave

Weave a spell of past ; some Saturday 1952,
then bouffant me, wrap me sparkle neat,
rouged red, poured leggy into heels.
Weave past. Re my bebop back to blues

rouged red, poured leggy into heels
tapping on 52nd Street’s foggy stage. Brush
high hat gold. Don’t drop no bombs tonight.
I’ll dream notes lashes down and cruise

high hat gold. Don’t drop no bombs tonight
on murmured me in minor swaying phrase,
swinging like a petal in a breezy groove
of psalm. I ain’t got nothin but my prayers,

swinging like a petal in a breezy groove.
When troubles flare up, just keep the snare up,
slip a tenor sideman solo in melodic lines
of azure threaded 4/4 through my looming cares.