Poem For A Sunday Evening

​Midnight
 
She calls herself Miranda,
A bayou Cajun queen,
Who haunts the street called Bourbon,
The heart of New Orleans.
 
Her black hair’s laced with ribbons,
Her eyes as blue as sky,
And when she sings at midnight,
She makes the sailors cry.

​Tattoos of scarlet dragons
Curl down her shoulder blades:
Her ears are bright with gemstones
That glitter in the shade.
 
Her jeans are ripped and tattered,
Her blouse is made of sighs,
And when she sings at midnight,
She makes the hustlers cry.
 
She sings the songs of Verdi,
Puccini, Mozart, Bizet.
She sings of lovers dying
And steals our breath away.
 
She sings as well the Delta,
Twists blues to lullaby,
And when she sings at midnight,
She makes the pavements cry.
 
She never thanks her donors,
Who fill her bowl with bills.
But stares into the darkness
Her music seeks to fill.
 
Too soon the spell is ended,
Too soon the music dies,
But when Miranda sings at midnight,
She makes the angels cry.