Solo Boulevard for Trumpet and Strings

David DeWitt Fulton

Home Style Cooking
Photo Credit: Thomas Hawk

He wore a dark winter’s night, a cap of dove-white moon.
She, in her streetlight overcoat and fireplug pumps.
They were the last ones, so they turned off the light
in the tiny LA diner that had closed for the night.
Dancing, nonetheless, through the oncoming headlights,
making the most of the boulevard’s drag. His hand was cold,
and her face was cold. Together, they were warm,
spinning through the hours until dawn. Spinning
like carousel police beams, and flooding the sidewalk
with red strobe then blue strobe then red strobe,
until the fog of their breaths met in the air above them.
Invisible to weekend revelers, but like pillars
of Earth rising from the flat desert to the one who
always sees ecstatic visions, and who hears
choir voices between the freeway surges; the one
alone in the bus stop kiosk, alone under the pentatonic
neon flicker: LIQUOR – LIQUOR – LIQUOR, alone at the
intersection, windows down, passenger seat empty,
the last of the junk food dinner at his feet. These
visions are for him alone, a bitter cabaret, but
one in sympathy with the heaving heart
that clicks away under the suit he made an effort
in, and through mouth that shall this night remain
unencumbered by the red press of another, and into
the hands that will touch nothing more sacred
that night than his own helpless body, sagging
and arching towards morning.

pencilDavid Fulton was born in Redondo Beach, California. He received his MA from CSU, Northridge under Dorothy Baressi, and an MFA from CSU, Long Beach under Charles Harper Webb and Gerald Locklin. Currently, Fulton teaches English at Glendale Community College. His poetry has appeared in numerous journals including Caffeine, Poetry Motel, The California Journal, and Toasted Cheese. His poem “Hubris” was shortlisted for The Pushcart Prize. He lives with his wife and perhaps too many cats in Sherman Oaks, California. Email: jackbox1971[at]

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