a woman like these two walked
towards me, as if a cat traversed
my path beneath the evening star.
Which one is wearing jasmine?
If my grandmothers saw me now
they’d say, Boy, the devil never sleeps.
My mind is lost among November
cotton flowers, a soft rain on my face
as Richard Davis plucks the fat notes
of chance on his upright
leaning into the future.
The blonde, the brunette—
which one is scented with jasmine?
I can hear Duke in the right hand
& Basie in the left
as the young piano player
nudges us into the past.
The trumpet’s almost kissed
by enough pain. Give him a few more years,
a few more ghosts to embrace—Clifford’s
shadow on the edge of the stage.
The sign says, No Talking.
Elvin’s guardian angel lingers
at the top of the stairs,
counting each drop of sweat
paid in tribute. The blonde
has her eyes closed, & the brunette
is looking at me. Our bodies
sway to each riff, the jasmine
rising from a valley somewhere
in Egypt, a white moon
opening countless false mouths
of laughter. The midnight
gatherers are boys & girls
with the headlights of trucks
aimed at their backs, because
their small hands refuse to wound
the knowing scent hidden in each bloom.
The Whispering Gallery
She’s turning away, about to step
out of the concave cuddle of Italian tiles
before walking through the grand
doorway to cross 42nd Street
to glance up at The Glory of Commerce
as she hails a yellow taxicab
when he whispers, I love you, Harriet.
Did he say something to himself,
something he swore he’d never think
again? Or, was she now limestone
like Minerva, a half-revealed secret,
her breasts insinuating the same
domed wisdom? Maybe his mind
was already heading home to Hoboken—
his body facing hers—his unsure feet
rushing to make a connection
with Sinatra’s ghost
among a trainload of love cries
from the Rustic Cabin to Caesar’s Palace.
Hugged there under the curved grandeur,
she says, I love you, too, Johnny.
Tuesday Night at the Savoy Ballroom
Entangled in one motion
of hues stolen from innuendo,
their exulted limbs couple
& uncouple till the bluish
yellow fuses with three
other ways of looking at this.
With a touch of blood
& congealed tempera,
black & white faces surge
through a nightlife
sweating perfumed air.
Their moves caught
by brush strokes
force us to now feel
the band on an unseen
stage. Bedazzlement
& body chemistry …
eyes on each other break
the law. They work
hard for fun, twirling
through sighing loops
of fray & splendor,
watering down pain till naked
hope glimmers in a shot glass.
Doppelgängers
I wait outside the Beacon Hotel
for a taxicab to La Guardia,
& dead ringers for Memnon
slink past. Here’s another.
Wasn’t Aurora’s son
killed fighting in Troy
for the Trojans?
His look-alikes stroll
through glass towers
& waylay each other’s shadows.
How many southern roads
brought their grandparents
here? Why so many chalk-lined
