Dream like a fulcrum, lift, conquer.
I would sing the comets in your eyes.
Running the length of the
switchgrass, cattle coyotes in your wake.
hail-good-fellow till night’s end.
Morning delivers mimosas,
parasol table, end of the pier,
skin that smells like acacia.
Dolphin gets the order and
limbers upward, bursting the
ceiling, a watered arc that
webs the sunrise.
Play it back and you
find the rivulets spelling
out your name.
Your secretary writes a
thank-you note, pins it to
a sardine, drops it in the bay.
From the collection Fields of Satchmo
Photo by MJV