7/7/77
by Ken Wheatcroft-Pardue



Head fake, sweating, dribbling,
turn-around, jump, fadeaway, rim shot.
Our tennies scuffing the ill-lit half court,

breathing in thick slices of noxious Union Carbide air.
A viscous night lit only by the refinery flares almost perfect blue light.
The rainbow of effluent in the ditches,

a hunk of bacon hanging on a string, crawdad bait.
The exploding cumulus,
the sweet and pungent smells of honeysuckle and oleander.

As we walked down West Grey one summer evening,
across the street, ballet dancers
practiced twirling without getting dizzy.

Running down West Beach, the waning moon
over her soft shoulders, the curl of black waves,
the wet sand, the feel of lips and tongues.

The causeway's halogen lights,
the smudge of moon on the bay,
the cooling air on our taut wet skin.





Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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