To Claude McKay

The sex is like a furnace to frozen feet.
A sliver shawl cradles her rich frame and
Her feet are staked on each side of her pink shoulders
as Her fluid movements drip from the stage, pooling in hollow eyes.

I see her smile, and see a smile
as her hips sway methodically to the swelling crowd.
She lingers long after the strings cease, a silent laugh in
her body overflows onto each tile of the sweating room.

She flows from the stage into leather gloved hands and lobster dinners.
With a soul full of nourishment, she sleeps, all day,
without a dream to dream.