The High Life, or Portrait of a Crooner in C.P. Time

He stormed down the sidewalk like one regular old
      Buffalo blizzard:
White scarf, matching mink coat, white hood
with a thousand fingers like greedy white tentacles clamoring for his face.
      Black shades.
Minty fresh, he crunchcrunchcrunched through a foot of ice in his white
patent leather boots.
The wind blew. The clouds came. All that jazz.
      He was late,
But you could never tell it.

When he finally got to the club, he dropped
his mink stole, his white three-quarter length coat
like the sun tossing aside clouds.
He was cuh-leeeeeen.
Cool as a polar ice cap. Igloo cool
even. Grabbed the mic. Made
them wait. Right
on time.

Falsetto rich as milk thickened
with powdered sugar.
I tell you, Daddy could blow.
He ended the show,
without even a bow. Gone like a mist
of ice. They searched high,
they searched low, they couldn't find
him. But if they did, he'd be riding

a white line.