Tracks
Well the hip groove is honking and clapping in my face
as I struggle to type.
It’s hypnotic tempo
is forcing my train of thought
down a track that spans
the wide desert at night
under the white full moon
where the air smells sweet of rain
and fat water-soaked Saguaro cacti
that stand vigil to the mountains and valleys
the sky is the expanse that mates with the sand
in a warm celestial embrace
and the tracks go around the bend
as the yellow glowing windows of the dining car
rides the rails sandwiched between the lounge and the third coach
the music has stamina
i look to my right at a small square blue and white duotone image of andre segovia
with a Magritte pipe hanging from his lips
and black horn-rimmed glasses
that compliment his sixty-year old receding hairline
with a flair of panache
if you wanted to go so far as to say
that the greatest classical guitar master of the modern world
carried himself with panache
a word that should be exiled
to small cheesy boutiques in midwestern malls
that sell cheap plastic earrings to teenage girls
and lip gloss that smells like bubblegum, strawberries and chocolate
yet tastes like pure shit
when you take it from the little pink purse
and dab it onto your finger
like an inquisitive lad
like the Tennessee boy
sitting with his family
inside the glowing window
of the dining car
and the black waiter in the crispy
white shirt and black pants
smiling above his shiny black bow tie
which winks to the boy
urging him
to go ahead
and taste the gum
that his little greasy fingers
have been prying at under the table.
