Beretta

I turn to see you rising

with the sun,

the number of days these hands

didn't touch you, are a rail of dust

between drawn blinds.

Slowly, caffeine and the Holy Ghost

bring my bones back

to the dance.

I remember a drum means

move this arm, the swinging hip,

once a signature,

begs for mercy.

There's yet a kiss here

and a doo-wop fit to turn tables.

Are you barefoot my Beretta ?

Maestro, 

rejoin our jukebox marriage.

Drop the moon like a quarter

and push my G7.

It's only hours 'til Friday night

and I've got nothing on you,

that breath

won't take away.