I came calling with a Fats Waller LP under my arm and a fistful of flame lilies behind my back. A shower cloud came and went between the time I heard your voice sing out 'round back and the tumblers in the lock fell down. You took my soggy cap and accepted a kiss on the cheek. I knocked around your bar and fixed us up some poor man's Sazeracs (Canadian Club and Pernod will do just nicely, if you've got enough ice) while you floated about the length of your shotgun shack looking for a vase. Your red-taloned fingers considered all manner of sparkly juice glasses and yesterday’s champagne bottles until I lost sight and smell of you. Then you returned, dropped the album on the hi-fi and took a seat beside me. We sipped slowly, silently in the parlor, letting the swamp air hang between us. I searched your face, but your eyes absorbed all gesture and suggestion. Haunted, guarded, or maybe just high.
When I'm taking sips from your tasty lips,
Seems the honey fairly drips
Another rain cloud passed, and I thought to take my leave. You arose suddenly and clasped my hand.
"Be a gentleman," you whispered, "and help me draw a bath."
- Text by S.M. Simões
With my dear friend, the lovely Lucy.