by Bruce Lader
Dearest Betty Carter
Sweet mistress of eureka,
there’s only one of you
swinging colors instantly recognized,
leading me through far-out mazes
of harmonies I could listen to
marooned on a remote island forever.
In the car I pray for traffic delays as you
nuzzle my ears, caress me
with juicy morsels of elusive melodies
gliding like discoveries of birds.
You change the monotonous sentence of work
into honeymoons around unknown planets.
So many nights I have wakened
yearning for your voice,
spider-stepped to the study
where we rendezvous in your galaxy of music.
My wife doesn’t dig the idea
of ménage à trois. She observes me
swaying and gyrating out of control
like an infatuated teenager
when you steal my breath away
without leaving a clue how you bridge tunes
to the furthest horizons, and mold them
with deceptive curves of delight.
I can’t keep our involvement hush-hush
any longer. She’ll read this poem and get
the wrong picture about the nebulous voyages
you navigate with limitless range
of camouflage, the abundant sounds
seducing me astray.
Last updated September 16, 2011