Being Francis

On a Mexican cruise with a
legends show—
passengers lifted to godhood.

My rivals at the audition opt for
white tuxedos and cartoon impressions,
but the crowd is buying none of it.
I’ve been swingin’ all night, and
I know you, Francis.

I know the lesser titles that
light up the eyes of octogenarians:
French Foreign Legion,
Polka Dots and Moonbeams,
There But For You Go I.

I have drunk the milky swoop of
Witchcraft sustenatos,
the roguish, citified bark,
the way you dare the orchestra on
as you contemplate an entrance,

the baritone elixir that
makes opera singers weep.

The rest is a roll of the
natal dice: vocal cords that
bear a passing resemblance,
blue eyes,
rhythm in the blood.

I report for the holy relics:
the short-brimmed hat,
the tux with the dangling bowtie,
the understanding that My Way is
not a song but a conversation with a
thousand close friends,

and make my entrance to a
dark stage, an empty stool,
a single spotlight.

Pardon me if I have made use of you,
if the citizens of this
floating colony embrace me
for tearing off a thread of your
gigantic soul.

As the ship slumbers I
report to a bar,
order the requisite martini and
begin this note of thanks.

But a man is sitting at the corner
like One For My Baby,
eyeing a Cuban that he
told his wife he wouldn’t smoke.

When faux Frank appears
at his side, he hands it over,
thanks me for the tune and
heads upstairs for his just reward,

leaving me to light up and write
of love, and jazz,
the tang of a gin-soaked olive,
the joyous curve of a swinging note,
as the hours grow small
and the dark Pacific
reels past my window.