5206. DANGLING DIAMOND EARRING

DANGLING DIAMOND EARRING

Even here, in Forest Hill, Newark, I am afraid of nothing;

no danger lurks worth reporting, and I am kept with a

figment of a God. Your dangling diamond earring, that

too, means nothing now. Silks and stockings, glittering hats,

all those hipster cats at the Barclay Lounge, try shunting

all of that aside. The black guys with their funny Cadillacs

and overdone girlfriends for the night; jive talk, funny walk.

I am here in camouflage; I am a sketchbook for my heart.

In a row, some fifteen buildings glitter cheaply  -  neon-lit

and bar-room lights where people hang, half in-half out.

Music too loud to be good trounces the air and the silence

with moments of trenchant portrayal while another deal

for flesh or sin is finalized. In a hurry, everyone moves

so slowly as to be seen. No digression tolerated.

Yet I am not afraid. Not money, not glitter, not

your dangling diamond earring will take this

night away  -  no man can stand up to the

power of me. That bootstrap is a gutter 

by which I'm lifted up. I'm richer than

the rest, in a thousand different ways.