i sit waiting
with nothing
but the conversation of a ceiling fan
to keep me cool
as you shower nearby
a weaker man
would be jealous
of the steady jazz made
with warm water as knowing fingers
and your body a nubile saxophone
i sit waiting
hearing cast off cat-calls
from old heads at the corner store
eyes closed
waiting for the creak of the door
the wafting scent of shea and lilac
the whisper of your hips beneath the towel
as you walk to the bed
hum Nina as you pick silk to slip into
and Harlem for a minute falls silent
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