By Scott Mittlebrun
Nights remain stranded and
I remain still
Thinking about nights I thought I would
But think about far too often
Where I hoped the sun would never go down
And I wouldn’t have to make the morning.
They never ran out of chorizo sausage
24 hours at the tip of your tongue
Steamy hot plates and tangled dreadlocks,
The streetlights don’t dip to the music or
The purple shades.
I think of horchata blended in a twisted liter
Cinnamon collecting and milk drifting
Rice like grass rubbing against my toes…
I can’t understand how the time has gone
Especially considering where I sit now
With the lights off
With hair frozen in place
Dreaming of silky commotion.