She walks up on me in blue shroud jazzness.
I thought her buoy, but she hit me like an island.
She makes me crazy. Her mask of innocence drives me happy.
She talks to me in the indigo highlights of her blackness.
Hers is a neck to snuggle. Hers is a tummy
on which to praise to heaven the potency of coffee.
She takes me down forest paths to shadowed mountains.
She leads me to the glitz of her Coney Island.
She's clothed in nudity. I'm ape in tie and suit.
She walks to me, she talks to me.
She looks through my haze of Wall Street shenanigans.
Is this not 131st Street and Lenox Avenue?
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