cool jazz with the key ring
baby on one hip and groceries swinging
crashed to the floor as the bag slips wide.
Not my bag, baby. Cool the jazz.
Milk is a mirror.
Mama is dancing, mama’s on the snap
grooving through the kitchen with a bottle to warm
pot roast in the oven, and gin in hand.
Where’s daddy-o? His girl is waiting
to the smoky blues of the beat domestics.