People I know don’t fuck nearly as much
as they say I do. I’m in it for the music.
I may drink and smoke and ogle the girls
but I know a major from a minor,
a sharp from a flat. Girls take off their clothes,
I take off mine. Who would want to say no?
They are not groupies, I’m not a rock star.
People say I gamble and fight too much.
I’m a pussy decked out like a tom cat.
I get hit, swallow my Adam’s Apple,
who could hear me sing? like a red rooster
early mornings, even though it’s pitch night
when I work myself up to reach the sky . . .
Lonely women take me home, love me good,
say I can fuck them all night if I want,
and I do but I’m older now and sleep
the day away, don’t come until the moon
appears. She’s been waiting, she comes along
when the sun kneels to get a good night’s sleep.
On my back, her face above, I’m alive.
The music never lasts as long as life.
You get older you shoot up so your world
comes down to enter hers. Then you can sleep.
People know her music is all I have.
We fuck through our clothes by the baby grand
she plays. Priests forbid you to come undressed.
I lose track, snow covers the years, I want
to keep going until the winter ends,
I smell warm air, tires lay down their slow beat,
horns find the melody, music begins.
(26 November 2011)
copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander