Dropping Shucks on Baudin

By Rudolph Lewis

Fog’s grey wet arms embrace 

my shotgun room off Tulane 

between the trembling abyss

of comfort  & survival, I hear

a rapping  like “Kula se Mama”

persistent as a drummer high

on cymbals in the dark corner

of my dreams . . . banging now

no syncopated surprises but

a non-composed urgency on

the windowpane.

                                  I pull

on my pants, go to the door

my sweet mambo out the box

gris-gris in her smile, expert

in knotted gutstrings, can’t

believe she’s coming like

she coming, 7am, stylish in

red skirt, white blouse, bangles

necklaces, rings on golden

fingers, lipstick & rouge.

And I wonder

people settle for a spoonful.

                                    I asked

why she had not called. She

kissed me on the cheek. The sway

of her body tells me not to worry

overmuch. She opens the door

& I follow. The sun breaks

through the haze, momentarily

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