Close of Business

   by C. Rudy copyright 2014

        A strange figure, I,

       with arms akimbo

       across the top of my car in the parking lot by the funeral home,

       traffic passing with the little old women of Miami

       hunched over steering wheels

       wondering

       for whom I waited,

       for whom I cried.

 

       But it was a symphony flying over those streets I cried for,

       a rhapsody in crimson, mauve, and blue

       playing in a towering thundercloud

       weaving bright banners throughout

       and hearing my silent

       shout

       of joy

       that I should witness the closing of this day.

 

       When did I stop last to savor such a sky

       or tread on grass newly wrested from the Everglades?

       When last to walk a stretch of sand left behind by the tide, virgin with no footprint?

 

       In the din of a dark and dirty city

       I hear the melody sung by an old, old world

       like lullabies I remember

       sung by a river in my childhood.

 

       Listen now, listen for a song sung by a cerulean sky above the city’s din.

       Be a watcher,

       looking for bright skies and bright fields

       beyond concrete banners of highway.

       Wave your arms and

       shout

       for joy

       that you heard the song.

 

       And when it’s my turn

       and all my business is done,

       when I’ve danced my last dance and

       sung my last song,

       then the little old ladies can wait for me

       at the funeral home

       leaning

       on the arms of little old men,

       my chums

       my friends

       my old loves.

       They must play no sad songs for me,

       only fly the bright banners, crimson, mauve, and blue and

       shout

       for joy

       to know, World, how I loved you.

 Miami Cold

   by C. Rudy copyright 2014

When it’s cold in Miami

lizards stick to the window

like licorice to my teeth

and air takes on the crackle

of champagne drunk from crystal,

no longer lanquid on my tongue.

Color flattens, cheap prints of a Master’s,

and the moon over Rickenbacker

jumps up yellow.

 

When it’s cold in Miami

bathing beauties sport goosebumps

like strange fruit blossoming

and sugared praline sand crunches between my toes

inviting them to linger.

Hot café Cubano tongues me

leaving me senseless,

and the moon over Rickenbacker

jumps up yellow.

 

When it’s cold in Miami

wind flies from flagpoles

jousting with pelicans,

joking with the waves and stitching ruffles at water’s edge.

Needles of cold air kiss my legs that dance between yours on Calle Ocho

and I am swallowed up in love with the night, the stars, and you,

when the moon over Rickenbacker

jumps up yellow.

Carol-Ann Rudy, Writer and Artist