If I were a song, I’d come up
at sunset onto the porch.
Occupy the rocker. Crack
the digits, knuckle by knuckle.
Smooth my lap, eying
the evening star touch your heart.
Wouldn’t stick around long.
Back and forth, forth and back,
slow enough to sip from the fifth; between
wobbling to the mosquito, the swallow,
the bat, hoops of smoke. Just as
the fireflies begin in chartreuse to spell your name,
and the June bugs pop their noses against the screen,
I’d go with the indigo dying to go black,
where the stars and the crickets elbow the melody out,
but not before the rhythm sets up echoes
of sweet, of nothing, of nothing sweet at all;
and the worm of a foot impossibly falling writhes.
I’d tithe the ear, tax the step, the better
to pay the night back with all the savings of death.
Willie Smith
