A Sort of Salsa Singspiel

June invades the park – infiltrates,
becomes the trance-inducing bongos
bopping, sifting through the trees
in celebration of the partial banishment

of dark: incrementally extinguishing
as much of night as it can render
light – and, as the song goes,
“…autumn leaves drift by my window”

but not now, or here – not for at least
another quarter of a year: I’m sure
I ought to try to dance in praise of this
felicitous fertility – but I lack means.

I sit here thoughtfully (I’d like to think)
recounting all my psychic beans,
and wondering – no, I don’t wonder
anything. I know what I should do.

Listen to the trance-inducing bongos,
joined now by a sort of salsa singspiel:
its syncopated warm Latino rap – now
wrapped in soft electric zaps of strummed

guitar – must make hips, elbows, thighs,
knees, shoulders, torsos out there
spar hard with invading June: swooning
to its tune and swaying to its beat,

fists open in the mildly humid heat.
(Opera in the kitchen fights, and loses,
on the radio.) Bewitching tides will
take you, darling. No choice but to go.

.