HOME THOUGHTS, FROM A BROAD
Yo, to be in Yonkers Now that April’s sere, And whoever wakes in Yonkers Sees, some mornin, blear, Row upon row of hoists and forklifts, factories smokin, Expressway is always chokin, While madam croons like a love-sick cow In Yonkers - now! And after April, when May follows, And the slick Hudson is roilin round the hollows, And the sweet smell of syrup and molasses ground Stifles that dry gasp of inks and oil and grease, Me, I’m doin sidewalk business downtown, Cruisin the brownstones, schmoozin easy. Then one time my gigolo swore he’d carve a Bronx sunset On a regular’s chest. O my, a black beau. A grizzled vet. Grin like a bashed fender. Shoots his best mack, the daiquiris talk He don’t try to hump me down some dark alley, then walk. No, sir. His skirt had skedaddled with both kids. But Leroy, he done tumble me too late. Shucked, on the skids. Him only guy who never made me cower. Called me his gaudy melon-flower. Michael Small December 18, 2001-February 6, 2002; April 1-5, 2002 published Swag o’ Verse 2003, December, 2003