The porches of the twilight blur
The lit cigars, the dying sun.
On fans and lemonade the fur
Of dark, like moths, begins.
Coiled in repose the idling cats
Survey in jet and jade
From railings and from welcome mats
The shirt-sleeved sweltering gods.
Through open windows radios
Tattoo the night with sound.
Insistent, throttle-wide banjoes
Conjure Pacific sands.
Or-mesmerized, intent, ignored
The confident crooner sprays
Himself upon the tired and bored,
Inviolably spry.
Where none shall ever ache to brink
The backtrack of a thought.
Or, drawing from the kitchen sink,
Be passionless and late.
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