I find myself dancing.
Knowing damn well
a city can take as much
as it can give.
I turn Tina up loud.
Light a candle,
hand-poured in Mississippi,
hints of verbena and makrut.
As for what gin can do,
sting like a song,
prolong a lifelong truth.
Erase memory with movement,
watch the hands of time move through.
It’s always the same question.
What’s left for us to do?
A lifelong reverie, bound by
yesterday and the blues.
I still like Tina Turner.
I like it. I don't even understand it but I like it.