Sunday Afternoon at Three O’Clock: San Francisco–1963)
four in an apartment they could never call home
lost in the lonliness and emptiness of a strange
world unwanted ignored like a splinter being pushed
from the body because it is foreign
we find two in the kitchen discussing songs
people places things to do–most of all women
whether it be three in the morning or three in the afternoon
we always discuss women phonograph sounding off
in the next room a young man sits on a stool
he blows away wildly he blows away seriously he
and his golden horn together they try desperately
together they sing and yes they eventually blend
in with the stacatto notes being poured from the machine
in the spark of a moment the blink of an eye
he has touched the soul of miles davis
there is but one more trying to imprison it all on paper
as the alcohol begins to take its course
soon the four who are trying to release so
much pent-up enegy will be contented to stumble
over to bed pass into a living death wake in the morning
arise to reality face this hideous world through sober eyes
and wish it were sunday afternoon
at three o’clock
Copyright, Dennis John Ferado, 2012
