Now and again, sandwiched between
some jingle I heard in 1962 and choice scoops
of American Pie, warm brass pools
across the lid and runs down the sides
of the bubbling still that cooks the shine
of my inner soundtrack-always on
sometimes loud, the DJ, goddamn him
a chimp turned loose in the broadcast booth.
But sooner or later once he’s wrung dry
In The Year 2525 and tired of the game
of water boarding me with the theme from
The Patty Duke Show, resonant brass
the color of Piedmont honey swells melting
in my glass on a warm May afternoon
a flugelhorn and a couple of cornets
cupping the sun in their bells.