French Quarter Funeral Poem by Sonny Rainshine

The crimson red sash
draped ‘round the saxophone player’s
black velveteen vest could have been a slash
of murderous blood and the clash
of the cymbals a gunshot.

The man in the box
would never bleed
or hear the reports of instruments
of violent altercation again,
nor would he read
sad obituaries
in the Times Picayune
and sigh.

In choreographed synchronization,
the widow and family,
marched-and-stopped-to-moan,
and marched-and-stopped-to-wail,
and marched, and stopped.

Was that the trumpet? Was that
the trumpet of Jericho I heard just now?
the veiled lady asked.
Was that the trumpet? Was that
the sweet voice
of my darling husband?

In choreographed synchronization,
the widow and family,
marched-and-stopped-to-moan,
and marched-and-stopped-to-wail,
and marched, and stopped.