And I love the way she rocks them
As Bob Marley plays in the coffeehouse
In a small college town
Just as a Charlie Parker cd
Is fading away in my headphones
She’s wearing the colors of Jamaica
Around her neck and it
Suits her
To grow dreads is to be
Married to your hair; it’s a commitment
Some take as long as 10 years
To grow dreads
Which come down to her
Ass
Like Samson, her hair gives her
Power
I should ask her if she has
Some black in her
Or more bluntly
Does she want some black
In her ?
Cos now,  her body reminds me
Of a yogi’s
And I’m imagining it
Bending into shapes
More complicated than algebra
And she’s either sending a text
On her smartphone
Or receiving one
I’m thinking maybe she’s jewish
Or Italian
She looks soulful and ethnic
I look at her again and she
Looks so epic
I look at her a third time
With the same voraciousness
Dagwood has when he sees a
Six foot long sandwich
 
I’m not a reggae head; I’m more
Into jazz
But I don’t care, cos her body
Is a jazz song all its own
I’m imagining her dreads
Under a sunsplash of a
Shower
Washing all the drama
Away

-- Erren Geraud Kelly