A Little Night Music

by Mike Foldes

Moonlight walks among the shadows
stalking darkness, it’s white cape wrapped tightly
as Mick Jagger’s pants around thin bristles
of tall ash, tips whipping in Agamemnon’s
persistent last breath, a wild heaving from he
who would have none of it now, pacing
the cave floor where cancer spreads
like tundra moss into one of many throats.

You could drop him there like a rabid beast,
hear the music as its body hits the floor,
but misery loves company more than salt
and the butcher would not cut off his right hand.
So climb back into the cab of the truck,
take the mandala in your long red fingers
and listen to the gods sing through nights
of knives in hearts and arrhythmic beats.

Third watch on the conga, lately interrupted
Steps forward to argue with the buried kings.