...enter silently the rooms I occupy.
She, slight of build, clad in parka, shiny black hair,
her ever inquisitive dog pulling his chain,
the remaining inch of his tail wagging ecstatically.

Pitch black irony, paronaia
or those much wanted tender words of hers
and she's recognized.

Nearly a dozen beers in the fridge;
euphorizing smoke rising from her walnut tree pipe.


And the late Mr. Bojangles,
also dead before the age of thirty.
In the aftermath of yet another night of speed
he was situated halfway inside,
halfway outside the window sill.
Having been an athlete he feared neither God nor devil.

One divine dancer he was,
somersaulting from the scene!
I was there too with my conga drums.
Rhytm, harmonies, groove; all pumped out
over the audience, from horns, bass, vocals,
hands and drumsticks.

Immediately after hitting the floor
he made perfect moves right in the faces
of the joints most beautiful girls.
Some ego, indeed and everyone loved him!

In that wolfish grey hour of which I was talking,
he finally lost his grip
and fell twelve yards to his embrace
with the cobblestones of the back yard.

One more glimpse of her;
half asleep with her hair on the pillow
behind the heavy curtain,
the dog's hearty snore being the only audible sound.


Three dead friends, one of them a dog, proceed silently
out of the rooms I occupy.