Thursday, May 22, 2014

Poem: Improper


Come see the dance,
walk the drive,
offer your cants to the sky.

Can’t cry, can’t samba,
can’t bake a souffle worth a frog.
Hold the microphone and tell me the
one thing you would like to
see on the table in front of you.

Don’t think.
Don’t stutter.

Map out the parts of your
body that require more attention.
I mean this in a sexual way.

From the collection Fields of Satchmo 
Photo by MJV

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