Strutting past 2 a.m.
                         and the manager’s
            repeated signals to stop, she

breaks into Now’s the Time!
                         Now’s the Time to Wail!
            Crash like broken leaded glass

from percussion
                        beyond
            the generally understood world.

Vi responds with sax
                         depositing unsafe ideas
             into Miss Betty Carter’s change purse.

She leans into frantic Bird chords before
                        a single long-held note
             injects starter fluid

into the crowd’s fireless heart.