Poor Mulatta, you have my sympathy,
your undulous hair swaying as you walk,
your corn colored sheen and the memory
of freedom and music, of double-talk:
Are you two-faced, Mulatta? Or soul-split?
Either way, you dug the music I spit,
but you hate your spitting image; I bit
hard on your looks, thinking we'd make a fit:
But it wasn't so, or maybe it was –
The moon at nights remembers me your cool
emptiness, and the tropical air buzz
that I fled from because I was a fool:
I understand your silence; Do you mine?
Did you smile, Angel, as I wrote this line?