Some mornings I don't so much as wake
as rise
like a snake from a basket
upon hearing the music
out of the corner of my beady eyes
today is going to be a good day
jazz is playing in the brothel
classical music in the symphony hall
all
is as it should be
men in hats
are winking
at strange girls
with silk purses
lined in lime green lace
and tiny bells
for earrings
the clarinet player
makes the melody
old and ancient
wild and free
and I rise
from the
basket.