A Pot A Trumpet
for D.E.W.

Miles Davis, I understand,
used to cook a really mean chili

just shy of done,
he’d call his closest friends,
Alex Haley among them

on the phone, when they’d answer
he’d say, “Chili!” one word
and hang up

it was up to those friends
to get their hips
over to his house in a hurry
not for curry, for chili

Miles Davis chili, as hot
as music from his trumpet
was blue and cold,
like chilly wind through your clothes

his chili was for those
close enough to call,
close to his heart and soul,
his bosom buddies

I take it you no longer care
for my cooking,
for this single word invitation

in apron still, must remember
not to dial your number,
phone on my kitchen wall

I’ll give your portion
to my pet leopard
she roars when she’s hungry
entire neighborhood, able to hear
when her belly growls

lion on MGM, makes a similar noise
a movie commencing

too much love?
my mother asked once
I’d screwed up my face
in response to her kindness


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2007
11:39 p.m. 08.12.07