Sometime in the late fifties
I was just lingering in someone’s fear of flying
when I noticed them: rum in their cups.
huddled over scribbled lyrics and laughing
from Piarco to New York City
on their way to let Belafonte plant calypso in the Garden.
I think Melody just figured me ugly,
some more kind family’s well-meaning man,
offered a tea-warm smile as his pen skipped paper.
Sparrow dances a marker over the
corner of the sleeve of The Slave
without a glance. Not like he was being cold;
under his breath he mutters how he’s
tired of obeah following him.
I thank them, they nod short,
and for a moment, they fell quiet.
Then their muse’s fury flares anew
in tighter whispers—before I
could lean to sneak a sight of the results,
Mister Francisco hums a tune
and the shadow I came through starts to close…