I try to stir the fire

but the embers are so low,

and time bodes too heavy

now, to coax them to glow.

.

Only moonlight over

my shoulder- a cold silver

shawl with no warmth left

from that darktown strutters' ball.

.

The music sticks to clouds,

to croon of love as it descends,

while the slide trombones make

ragtime lovers out of old old friends.

.

There is no more fire to stir,

no rhythms from the drums,

only feet that dance in memory

of lovers who once were chums.

09/05/2005