62500
poetry
don't wear black ties and tailz no more
nor do it sashay 'round central park
in horse drawn carriages like it used to back in the day...
it don't chill in the penthouse of the waldorf
nor do it sun bathe in the nude at its private caribbean island...
poetry
don't hang out no more
til-da-break-a-dawn
at those $1,000-a-plate functions
and hop nob wit da white collar crowd...
poetry
is the scent of a cool august breeze
after a late afternoon thundershower washes away the smell of the trash
baking on the sidewalk in front of your window for the past two weeks...
it is the smooth touch of her shoulders
and the sweet
unmistakable scent that only she has
or had
when she was with still with you...
poetry
is the leftover fried whiting and grits on the stove
when all seven children have been fed
and you watch them nap on the bed in front of the 12-inch second hand tv
in the one bedroom of your apartment...
there will be enough for dinner the next day
and you can't tell me
that ain't
poetry...
