A Home in Dakar

When the African Arts,
home again,
became host of the hour,
their essence breezed into holidays,
holidays for those
dressed in their tans, browns, and charcoal grays, of the West;

and for those robed in their brighter power apparel;
and even for those who had much less than the
seven bright yards of M'bou bous
with the (seemingly) seven bright yards of turban to match.
For a flash, their battered sandals, and tattered sacs had no mattered.

The At objects (rejoicing in being "at home")
kept lending themselves
until their valid guests were jeweled.

No one felt too poor
and what with the incessant drumming
we all went on Tribute-to-African-Art inclinations,
Fabio, Fuller, Drake, and Langston Hughes
dancing through the streets.
Yes, I danced too;
emotions strumming that the dazzling grace of Blacks
could finally be felt in all its impact.

Yes, I danced too; flinging out
my sheer lace (peach shifting to tangerine) M'bou bou
feeling neither too ill or too old.