A glass of fiery young rum tastes right at just past eleven
On a hot November morning, air thick after a wild rainstorm.
Haze hung lazily over the grove, like loafing young men
With little else to do but swap stories and drink.
I let the electric liquid slide down my throat,
Its invigorating fumes igniting my thoughts
And awakening me, burning away the wax
Encasing my vision and obscuring my thoughts.
I could see everything now. I could see watermelon pinks.
I could see almost-black greens. I could see taxicab yellows.
I could feel the lick of a stray dog's tongue on my bare feet.
I could smell the perfume of banana tree blossoms in the air,
Bananas as tiny as fingers and tasting like ice cream cones.
I could feel the breeze that traveled from a boulangerie,
Miles from this place, and I could feel it kissing
My neck with the aroma of fresh bread just baked.
Looking down, there was a stray dog
Licking my toes, and I reached down to scratch
His scroungy ears as he looked up at me.
I offered him a taste of my rum
But he recoiled and scurried away.
It was then that I spotted the whirring
Wings of a tiny, bejeweled fairy,
Hovering around a flower.
There is no more delightful sight to be seen than this,
I said to myself, as it stuck its needlelike beak
Into the blossom's cup, and drank deeply.
And I lifted my glass, filled again by a smiling
Woman, and drank with the hummingbird, as it,
Swiftly, hungrily, deeply, purposefully,
Without any care except for the moment's pleasure
And the nourishment of body, heart and soul.
