One of Our Aviators is Missing
after Gabrielle Calvocoressi’s The Last Time I Saw Amelia Earhart.
I was a horn player in Madisons
in the Jazz Age. They call it that now
like it was centuries ago, yesterday to me.
She was a regular
before that guy slapped a ring on her finger. Shingled hair
and long legs flapping Charleston wings
like some exotic bird of paradise
twirling her beads like there was no tomorrow
darting to a table in her glad rags
for her Manhattan, back on the dance floor
clapping her knees to Black Bottom
laughing up at me, fringes flying.
Hard to imagine her in leathers,
more boy than girl in the photo.
All those old tunes
I can remember them all.
What are they playing now?
Sinatra. Come Fly With Me.