My guitar has seen the world conmigo
through the stipplings
of life's percussions.
She's beckoning me to return
to the rhythmic pounding
of Dominican merengue.
She drapes the woven fibers of her arm
casually over my shoulder.
The familiar weight of her piggy-back ride
comforts me through the hissing, buzzing,
winding marketplace.
We barter our dinner con dos cervesas
and stroll to the beach as one.
On the pasty shores of La Playa,
I undo her strap and admire her ample curves.
Inlaid with mother-of-pearl,
she is perfection.
And untiring muse.
We watch the nameless beauties strolling by.
They're hand in hand with lovers they don't know.
They toss us their dutiful centavos,
good samaritan pesos,
and once in awhile the effort of an insincere smile.
They don't appreciate you the way I do.
Me amor
You depend on me (the way a man needs to be depended on)
for the melody of your soul.
Submissive to the exploration of my hands,
humming as I strum.
You whisper decades of nostalgic repertoire.
You continually soothe me with the harmony of your slow arpeggios
and the peppery texture of your quickening syncopation.
You sing each note with the richness and purity
of flawless creation.
Your voice awakens my inner dance.
Your movement in my hands is freckled
with unbridled passion.
Together
we feel the flute-like breezes
of hand-carved woodwinds.
They're tribal in their cry
to join the beating ocean waves
in the song of our transgressions.

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