gilded age.

Mmm…Gershwin.

The low whine of the muted trumpet

penetrates my skin and enters

my veins like osmosis.

I should be smoking a cigarette

through a plastic holder in one

gloved hand

and drinking Scotch in the

other.

Time is warped, like faded photos

found in antique shoppes.

Everything has a golden tint

and sways to the beat of the music.

I was born eighty years too late.