The screech of metal on metal,
a propeller from backstage to the proscenium,
the impact feels much slower
than I remember.
The last time I was surrounded
by flamenco dancers masquerading
as patrons worth every dollar,
the sun dipped down
below the islands of the Dominican Republic.
The polo boys were feverish,
speckled hoops of dirt on sinews
reminds me I’m sitting under white lights,
pouring over footnotes and marketing jargon.
The memory of passion fruit and orchids
Yanks me back to signing
below the dotted line
after the screech of metal on metal,
a flick of the wrist and I’m the new owner
of salient horsepower.
— yiqi 17 Feb 2016 10:01 pm
The above poem is based on a series of texts.