Anya Johnson

Moon River

I have hung up my cloak 
of matter. I am alone on the bus,
my lean and gamy days
forecast by the twist of a trumpet. 
Stop. Moon river. Jazz trio. 
Again, I am naming what I see
to no purpose. Tears stand militant 
on my cheek, my hands make an empty
noise. The horn is raised to his lips. Oh yes, 
I regret my frequent cruelty.
I am stamping, crying, calling out. Hard-driven 
and steaming in the dark. 
Forgive me! I am crying at the cafe 
closest to my lover's house. 
Forgive me! My melodrama, my artless desire
and simple crimes. Forgive me!
I’m here, waiting round the bend, I’m crossing you
in style, I’m on my feet, furious,
shouting  encore

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