62400
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
or 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 for the past two weeks
it’s 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 black and white 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
