the death of bo diddley – By Jack O’Metty
Ancient Ireland, her stubborn earth
sooty sons hurling in the navy blue evening
punching through peripheral gravelback roads,
Bo Diddley on the CD player –
Who do you love?
Quiet eyes behind dark sunglasses
my stickshift smirk
railing against streetlights, traffic, woman
(jeans licking her legs like words on paper
Her ass is Spanish,
close-packed like a church bell)
Now I’m a man
I spell M-A-N
I set my jaw against her hips and her teeth (perfect like a sky),
her whiskey smile.
Ancient Ireland, I crumble into her roaring bosom,
soft in the twilight.