P.J. Nights
in the wee hours
you blow jive lingo, rattle paper shades
between us ‘til they snap! let in the light
and curtains shimmy lace in a Lindy hop
a jazz-riff zephyr wafts your word, invades
my sweet peach like a hot mosquito bite
I’ve got to scratch -- my head’s a spinning top
though I ain’t had my coffee yet, but those
are sly high ways you wind me up so tight
I call you up ‘cause I can’t wait be-bop
be-bop meet me in five at Uncle Joe’s
Truck Stop
the mock turtle’s tears for lobster quadrilles
when Montserrat simmered
on the edge of noon’s blue heat
fishermen would sound a tantara of conchs
to tout fresh turtle meat
later in the evening I’d dice cool
christophene, mash da green banana
split open passion
fruit - sieve pip from pulp
for a tall glass of squash
to toast turtle braised in brandy
on the back stoop, Jumbie
Osgood cat-crunched beetles
in time to my kitchen calypso
and we both danced unaware
of Soufriere smoking its pipe
on the turtle-back of this Emerald Isle
©2003 by P.J. Nights
