The dead have risen.
They walk the streets
at night, in search
of a promised rapture.

One-by-one they file
into empty jazz clubs,
to pick up instruments,
and play for lost arts.

Some take turns
scatting into the mic
to the sound of bongos
and berry saxophones.

Others recline back
in their chairs, smoke
cigars, and nod along

They aren’t voodoo
manifestations, but
flesh and blood human
beings back from

the last great pool hall.
This their only time
to walk among streets
of their dreams, and do

the things they did
while living. They
must return when
the doors open up

for business. Though,
many wish to go out
and crawl up to their
children’s windows.

the thought of being
just an apparition
is too much to bare.

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