On a sticky afternoon
he stopped underneath her window, open wide to catch
the faintest of summer breezes.
"Ay, yo!"
He waited for her to appear, spitting on the sidewalk,
moving over to let an old lady and her cart go by.
Her pink curlers emerged first,
followed by a cigarette, from which she took a long drag
and then flicked onto the brim of his fitted cap.
He brushed off the ashes and squinted up.
"Why you ain't call me last night, shorty?"
A second figure comes to the window, bronze skin
glistening underneath a dingy wifebeater,
arms rippling as they pull his love away.
The cigarette, disgarded, lands beside immaculate sneakers,
freshly wiped clean that morning.
Have received his answer, Romeo turns and walks away.
Here is a revised version:
ReplyDeleteHarlem Serenade
On a sticky afternoon, with air thick as molasses
he stops underneath her window, open wide to catch
the faintest of summer breezes that only occasinally whisper through.
"Ay, yo!" he calls, then waits for her to appear,
spitting on the sidewalk, stepping sideways
to let an old lady and her rusty jalopy of a cart squeal by.
Pink curlers emerge first, then cinnamon bun wrists leading
to curling nails, florescent talons, which dangle
a skinny cigarette, from which she takes a long drag
and then flicks carelessly onto the brim of his fitted cap.
He brushes off the ashes, a hailstorm of disregard,
squinting up in the sunlight and her boredom.
"Why you ain't call me last night, shorty?"
A second figure comes to the window, bronzed biceps
moving and glistening like pythons
underneath a dingy wifebeater,
forearms rippling as they silently pull his love away,
back into the cool and darkness he cannot see beyond.
The cigarette, disgarded, lands beside immaculate sneakers,
freshly wiped clean that morning,
shiny slates on which hope once rested.
Have received his answer, our Romeo turns and walks away.