Quincy Troupe

Goyave Night Scene 2

the roll-up door lifts, reveals a yellow light bathing
the black & white photo of miles dewey davis
resting on the white wall of our house in goyave
as a cool sea breeze tongues in, messages my face & toes
where eye am stretched out on a black & white couch,
looking at the leonine “prince of darkness” dressed in black
lizard pants, open white shirt, a slender black scarf hangs
from his neck, he is young, handsome, beautiful even,
looks taut as a black panther slouched in repose,
his face looks pensive, lost in thought, he holds his golden
trumpet cocked in the air, as if about to play with the night
sounds of frogs, birds & crickets syncopating into my house
as they serenade us with their pulsating musical groove,
outside imagined ghost-voices emanate from shadows,
tremble through bushes clinging to fences,
eye hear a bat’s sharp cry cleave the night like a razor
slicing through flesh, bone, gristle, as a blood curdling
scream of a dog hit inside rush hour traffic reminds us
death is always near, right around the corner
& all is not paradise here, though close as anything
eye have ever imagined, close as anything beautiful
can be to the paradox of mystery, surprise, wonder