This is what we have-
blue dishes, Van Gogh prints,
a burnt out air conditioner, poetry books,
African music, gypsy dances,
you swaying, singing under the fan
against the backdrop of beads in the entrance way
where beyond the bed awaits like the sea calling.
But I am good and finish most of the meal
of artichoke leaves
and salmon
and grapes and strawberries,
but not all is eaten
as I ooze the strawberries
onto your breast
sand kiss the sweet ocean
and enter-behind the beads
where
another fan awaits
and Cuban songs,
the cat purring
and the heat of a summer
Florida night
with you.
