by Jordan Barnes
how many horns must I withstand
before I can hear Louis?
thankful in silent respect,
but still waiting –
waiting for the horn to remember its place,
its wondrous place!
a setting adorned with the souls of children and babes disguised as men with unheld hands, course over brass buttons,
stinking of cigarettes and reefer –
it forgot it belonged on Earth.
The horn sounds like applesauce! Thick, flowing splendor turning speakers into snow globes and snow globes into horror stories –
can you see yourself in the windows of the tiny house? See?
There you are! There’s Momma, brown and blessed singing her heart into Jesus’ arms, and Daddy somewhere else –
forgetting his place,
just like the horn.