The sky is pulled down like a shade over the city.
The sea stretches out her dark hair against the Coast.
Its lights a joyful tiara encircling her brow.
I won't make her jealous thinking
of your ocean green eyes right now.
Booker T and the Mg's mincing greens onions on the radio.
Palm trees stand guard around the coast like Afro'd sentinels of liberty.
Can't see the colors in the dark, I just know they're green from memory.
Lilac smolders in the candles
Cheap gas and cheaper smoke compete with the night fog
I can't find my way beyond memories of the way your hair falls soft.
The mangroves are huddled together now,
a brackish church for a congregation of ragged claws.
Alfred Prufrock would worship here
A red beacon flashes in the distance
Out of sync with booker t, in tune with the airplane landings.
We can't all be artists you know, someone has to ensure the pilots aren't to drunk to land that thing.
In the distance the cars careen across the causeway,
may as well be well lighted camels wandering towards who knows what star.
I wonder if any mangers are open on Christmas Eve?
It's a quiet evening, I am at home in this Bethlehem, mayhem. No stars tonight.
A single white sailboat sits on a sandbar somewhere in the middle of the bay. Unaware of my lady the sea below or the caravan of camel men wandering on their way.
