Her body was a city.
Filled with folk who spoke with their hands.
Nothing was ugly. The way that they vocalized.
She lived in the street, watching every little thing come alive.
Her body was a city where most times we sat in the car.
With no idea where we were going.
Most of the time just sitting there with the music playing.
I loved going places with her, most times just sitting still.
There wasn't just one landmark that stood out. Often time loosing sense of direction.
*** heard through the ears of a leaky car and rattling tailpipe.
Her body had a culture of it's own.
Moet' shaped frame, cigar paper still wove tight. Still in the package.
Rich in the sound that came alive soon as her eyes closed. The same color of her car.
Each little thing contributed to the support of how she dreamed with her eyes open.
The folk whom spoke with their hands. lost in a multitude of conversation.
Everything came to life with each passing glance.
A few folks walking pass, the corner store still lit.
Sitting in a still car, promoting live art.
The little orange wrench popping up on the dashboard motioning perspective.
Often a soloist, she'd let me visit by the hum of buzzing lights.
Wooden street poles, medium sized plastic aluminum and glass.
We sat under the street light in a mid sized sedan without need for seat belts.
Rich in the sound that came alive soon as her eyes closed.
I myself became a resident.
Following the songs she'd play.
I'd listen intently often forgetting everything she just said.
The contact of screen to phone. The back drop of lights ringing in silence.
Volume cut low, Most of the time just sitting there with the music playing.
Everything just seemed to disappear in the percussion her body would make.
The swift motion her hips would make,
The songs she'd mouth to herself.
I wasn't completely hopeless.
Just in love with the blues
