At the Armadillo

at the Armadillo
guitars hang in colours
on a wall shaded yellow and sunset
ukuleles are a light relief
of sky plus brown
spaced to make a little
silent symmetry

in this homage to the desert
corrugated rainbow-iron
upholds a spotlight
for the mirror-ball twirler of reflections
to pout lipstick shapes that simmer
around the walls
in a slow-slow time
until we are half red kissed
by indicators of romance

the man in the hat
has aimed his saxophone at the cantina

and particularly at my table
he is striking home a long note
fired with his eyes tight closed
and blowing so hard
the iron sheets are a rattle
in the brassy breeze
of a cold and barren night
but I am warm somehow

and my señorita is demanding
with a touch beneath the table
we should dance


© Frank Prem, 2001

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4 thoughts on “At the Armadillo

  1. Pingback: At the Armadillo | emmapalova

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