by | Feb 4, 2021 | Poetry

The juke joint for some people is as much a sanctuary as the church. They offer incense and worship at the bar’s confessional.

The cafe looked worse
on d’inside than out.
The floor was half-way
fallin’ apart.
The wood was rotted.
An’ de bar was nodin
but a bunch of boards
put together.

It was like a cave
that echo’d every sound-
loud laughs, sexy whispers,
swears, and cutdowns
lighted the air.

Never any silence.
All de silence dat
had been locked
up for 300 years
of work
an’ a little freedom
on d’Holidays
exploded itself in d’ air
and the room was
lighted with
the conspiracy of being alive
(widout d’ white man).

Secrets dat had been
well kept were found
and the common
tie of all conversation
was how someone
got over on Mister Bob
or how they was going to.

About three, we left the cafe
and all its empty promises.
We slept a couple hours, got up
and went to scream at
d’ white man again,
but in angelic voices.