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Michael J. Vaughn                                          On Listening to Louis Prima and Keely Smith after an         Evening with                        Michelle                                                      The rough                                                        and the                                                        smooth                                                       butterfly on                                                       sandpaper                                                       they razz                                                       each other                                                       the wheedling                                                        piano the ride                                                        cymbal the                                                        black magic                                                         is under                                                         my skin                                                         keggling                                                         downhill                                                         like an Italian                                                        jalopy. Dancing      with                                                         buffet tables           necking                                                         in the street             so flippity-                                                        flop this catch        in the breath this                                                        tiny gap these      wheelworn highways                                                          who meet         after midnight. Candles                                                         flaming Cy      still singing black                                                        wax puddles    the icing as Paul                                                        cries “We’re   gonna burn the                                                        place down!” a fiery birthday                                                          chaos that opens to my                                                         hazel satellite watercress                                                         smile map to my cellular                                                        wish and how she got                                                         there I really don’t.                                                        Jersey jester Cherokee                                                           fox whack me a                                                        roadsign sailing home                                                         at ridiculous hours                                                        chapped lips fingers                                                         buzzing the rhythm                                                         the rhythm the                                                             song the                                                               tears.                                                                                         ©2008 by Michael J. Vaughn Michael J. Vaughn is the author of seven novels, including the comic sex mystery Double Blind. His poems have appeared in Terrain.org, Many Mountains Moving, and The Montserrat Review. He is a frequent contributor to Writer's Digest, and creator of two blogs, Operaville and Writerville. His interest in shape poems was inspired by a WD assignment which included an interview with legendary shape poet John Hollander. The shape here is a tenor saxophone, the instrument played by Louis Prima's bandleader, Sam Butera.

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