It was an outdoor cafe
On a red clay street path,
Where people probably gossiped
"Scuttlebutt-like,
And rested from the wisteria
Perfumed heat-steam.
Oh purple parasites -- how you
Tempted, then strangled our trees to death!
With your sweet smelling, lacy
Skirt-tossing ways.

We sat at the wooden, doughnut-shaped table
Circling the droopy, weepy willow tree
In a shade blessing, cool
Jungle respite --
Away from the Carolina woods
Where the snake bit a UNC
Coed to eternity,
Away from the congregation which gave
Reverend Charlie his one-day notice,

Just 'cause he let the six black "boys",
traveling musicians
Sit in church -- contaminating
The prurient pews.

We sat in The Scuttlebutt,
Looked longingly at the Carolina Hotel
On the diagonal from us,
Imagining: Dripping Southern fried chicken,
Hush puppahs, sweet potato pie, blackeye
Peas, grits and gravy, Oh delight and
Peak experience, Oh Scut!

And we munched musingly on our
Pink pork hot dogs
(Beef kosher from up North no more)
And sizzled down the "pop" through
Omnipresent ice chips,
And peered dreamily Into the
Dazzling future to come, we grad students,
Of plump babies and affluent living--
Amid white house, white fence, white snow,
Blinding sunlight, shifting clouds,

And yes, the dark of sickness and death
And one of us gone to a phantom,
And I plod on shimmeringly pained legs,
And long city avenues,
Dodging the jostling cursing people
Each with his own story of joy or misery.