-1Poem for Bea Arthur

It's pitch black
succulent summer
night, school must
be a month away

and I'm sprawled out
on the couch in the
family room, because
upstairs it's too hot

to sleep. Back door
open, porch light
buzzing amberish
fading, in

and out. Crain flies
clutch at the screen, and
bare feet form hot
plumes on the

mahogany coffee table.
I am giggling in the neon
afterglow of the television,
late night

reruns of The Golden Girls,
and Bea Arthur's voice
saunters in, lovely

masculine with a hint of honey.
She is singing in front
of a piano,
men look on

she's unstoppable,
I envy that.