Tone Deaf

On a vacant street
in an unfamiliar town
in the dawning
but dreary
afterglow

of long standing rites
and rituals

the windows all stare
at the intruder
the interlocutor
a codfish aristocrat
still stumbling for
the Moulin Rouge

permissions are needed
warnings heeded
“Boy, you had better head home...
Boy, it ain’t all bad to be alone.”

Whether the tavern
or the chapel
conviction
is an unmistakable
tone.