the guitarist

In my house
My kingdom of junk piled high
The twinkle of decades built into this slum
Is mine
The old sofas and dusty curtains,
Jeweled lampshades with plastic diamonds swinging
On drafty evenings
Jars of food expired sitting on untouched shelves
Limp dirty shoes, books without covers
The beds of sons who have built their own empires
Lie empty, undressed
This house once full
Of faces with gilded teeth that emitted
The light of full moons and there were women
Who laughed from their stomachs until Carribean tears
Wet their silk lashes and men with the threat of
Volcanic sleep in their fists and their feet
Cooed in the arms of chirping wives
Heavy with cheap sherry and the spell
Of my spanish guitar that moved caramel thighs
In heated dances that did not end until
The walls erupted in spasms

Thousands of barefoot strangers
Filled my house
Beckoned by the wood instrument that made magic
In my hands, sitting on my porch, playing until blisters burst
Fingers swollen with music
The red sting of love in my song
They came from from avenues, windows, roofs
Poor dirty things with passions
Bigger than the mango sun over my country
They sat at my table gluttonous, drunk, infatuated
Spilling flowers and fruits to the floor
Crushed into a paste of perfume
And wine with their clumsy dances
Do not see my house, my throne, as a cemetary of time lost
To taxes, to politics, to heirs who wanted none of it
Stand under the veil of garbage that parades on the front lawn
See the footprints of so many starving
Strangers who who came into these walls
And left in an embrace of brotherhood, full