Paris Street, Tampa
Trumpet, trumpet flower, and the before
—my body old already, but sparking.
This was decades before the songs I thought
sang Shadow Garden, the termites, the sirens.
I wanted this to be about the house,
the ghost that moved the mirror,
the car-in-the-driveway arguments,
late nights waiting up,
slammed & broken glass,
But also the oranges before greening,
Spanish moss, old hopes,
money, money and money.
Our first cat was a tortoise shell
and the bug man said
She shore is ugly.
The house where you called down all your ancestors.
Much before the house I thought was me was thrumming—
pure inside with jazz.