Diamond in the back, sunroof top, digging the scene
with a gangster lean.
— William Devaughn
Déjà vu, as when she hums hibiscus to our toe tap
weighed down by smoke, the cigar drowned like a spilled
drink licked from a wobbling table, stains
the piano’s sugar pine over calypsos and daiquiris
of a watering hole struggling to outshine cigarette butts
floating in the toilets, and over the chitlin circuit leisure
sticky with sweat through blip-less blues, a beer garden
tinted indigo sparkles with her love oil, and the barbeque rib
grease on her mouth, the sauce confused for lipstick,
as when she crosses the aisle jazzed up with neon
filtered through the honkytonk, florescence, lime
and coconut rum clinked glasses, ice on the tongue
like a weather forecast hits wide of the mark, as when
a stranger kisses the waitress’s hand, then draws his
eyes up to her face, smitten by dimples and Bacardi,
our souls shimmering nostalgia as Joe solos
on the Fender Rhodes, Wilton: sax, Stix: green drums,
Wayne: trombone, bass bottoms
spellbinding on a Jelly Roll groove, as when
their harmonic matrix lifts our feet, cool like flamboyance,
turns the wall mirror upside down,
and flexes to blow the roof off,
make the restroom pipe leak as if each crescendo
infiltrating its crack puts the liquor license in jeopardy,
bring the funk to her fingertips as she unwinds
over a dish of deviled eggs and hot crab pinwheels,
her red blouse open at the neck in low houselights,
how I glance at an island flowering in a pot
while I’m sure the marijuana is missing by a mile,
as when booze burns our lips like salt,
not much we’d ask of another, not faulting
that little orange moon in the black towers,
tipsy, the shadows surpassed by twin stars,
standing room the night owl holds to, and after
too much to drink catch the connoisseur
hassling the bartender over out-of-stock-absinthe,
his teeth snatching the electric air, as when
the bouncer dashes him out the door, before
naked voices jump off the flaming carousel—
say gut bucket, say barefoot bunion, as when we
stomp grapes, swallow full bodies from a bottle,
coat our tongues with the wine to enjoy a chunk
of cheese, bread, olive oil, the way we plunge
this whiskey air into a joke, while the rhythm section
sweeps a frisk of wind through our laughter
wired to throw back our heads like the feathers
of two doves plumed on a branch as when we lean
into a tuneful phrase and the fire does not burn.
