Local color: Turquoise

There is a cadence
To foreign tongues,
Speakin’ in my own English,
That draws a map
To the mouth’s self
Origin.

Vowels roundin’ on each other
Or jumpin’ in place
Consonants clipped,
Get dipped,
Or hit
Hard
And sometimes they disappear
In the mists of assumption,
Abandoned by a busy talker
With too much to say.

Every sentence
A journey
To places with
Swayin’ trees in an ocean breeze.
Melons with strange names.
Drowsy afternoons
Full of too much sun
That glares against
The whole dome of the sky.
And nights –
That waft sweet
On sultry jasmine sweat
Down damp streets
And echoes of
Bongos and brass.

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