Sweet Potato Pie
Perfumed memories drift
across a sensuous universe
delivered sotto voce: Smell
of morning mist, me into you,
you into black coffee
wearing your silk caftan
as through an open window
city smells melt up
from littered sidewalks,
sparerib bouquet flies out
from juke joints and you,
always you, like fudge brownies
hot from the oven until
one day at thirty-nine,
you fell into a heroin spoon
wafting death
in our cold empty room.
Now, decades gone, in my still-keening mind
passes down a long imagined hallway
with many closed doors,
where a light beneath each sill
waits to be opened to smell,
where memories dwell
never far
from sweet potato pie.
~~~~~~~~~ revised 8/09 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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