One Venetian Blind

ivory as a piano key
stained with blues
on alternate Tuesdays
at Alvin's on Cass

where Sweet William
thumped his life chord,
his fingertips blunt,
swollen with sound,
curled down. Down

past yellowed keys
slick with sweat,
past morning and night
that open-and-close death
when his heart stopped,
and he tripped

through the venetian blind,
all slats tilted
toward one perfect note

blue as the blackberry brandy
he tossed back. Neat
and clean, the kicker,
his last kick,
the bucket flying up
and out of sight
as his music kissed the wind
down the long avenue,
light flying into light.

Copyright 2002 Carol Carpenter