Wisps of sainthood waft about this living room—
give me flamenco, give me Persian rhythms and
sweet gypsy jazz, swing it all out of speakers
perched high on the cabinet counter.
Bits of wild wind shoot through
the second story windows,
running from the belching mountains beyond
the poplar trees in the backyard.
The gusts lift the melodies and snuggle them
into marrow-bones, into wall studs, into wallpaper
maps pasted with thick sticky tack, ivory-camel white.
There I sit, idly running a finger
over the yellow and blue threads of this wingback chair,
beleaguered by idiosyncrasies, “personal
touches” I’ve someday gotta pancake punch—
101 beats per minute taps my shiny fingertips
on the black mac keys upon my lap,
tap tap tap
getting silly with it.
That’s a lass, I say,
Get up and out that gate,
I say, get your horse a’going
we’ve got beef on the line, stakes in the game
tofu marinating for dinner we’ve got to get somewhere today!
Costa Rica sweeps back a sticky hair from my brow
and Iran tucks it behind my ear.
There’s Strunz, landing a long note, long E
Farah standing behind, shaking finger cymbals radical
like a Colorado brown snake behind
a cyclist’s pedals.