Author: Cheri Paris Edwards
•9:13 AM
daylight savings time

dawn spreads afternoon blankets.
fleeting days dim to "fly-by-nights."
weeks wink into months that flit by,
leaving just the wispy scent of a year
already gone. stealthily, I shadow
time's trail, only to land steps
behind my prey--hunted moments
already tittering in the past. "if
I could put time in a bottle," I would,
but quick, fast and in a hurry--
crafty time keeps slip-sliding away.

© Cheri Paris Edwards 2007
Author: Cheri Paris Edwards
•9:11 AM
dancing 'til dark

Tracee breathes smoke from the Marlboro deep
into twenty-year old lungs. She presses back into
the damp wooden post, slideshow riffling. Shiny
metal trailer, 30 steps toe-to-toe wide, squats on
the edge of Urbana, poised like a silver bullet
pointing to nowhere.

Tracee, she remembers gazing through the small
rounded windows, breathing deep cool summer
night air. Sister Molly tugs at her gown, small hands
raised. Lifting her close, the sweet smell of baby
Molly fills Tracee’s nose and round and round they
whirl to songs Tracee hums as they dance.

"Front and center," Dusty croaks. Tracee shakes
off the day with a toss of her hair. The familiar
melody of moist night tunes hum along with the
creak of the wooden steps. Her nylon wrap falls
and Tracee breathes the hot yearning for a girl who
doesn't exist. Donning Molly's sweet scent like a
white lace dress and pearls, Tracee slips on a
smile and she dances.

© Cheri Paris Edwards 2007
Author: Cheri Paris Edwards
•9:08 AM
Sing to me a love song

Tantalizing. Like the ruby-red lips of his first
love Darlene Jones, the night streets sing.
“Down home blues, down home blues,” ZZ Hill calls.
The guitar wails. The blues man's husky voice
cajoles cool, invites him to enter red brick walls.
Steam heat moistens the bodies cluttered there.
Flickering candlelight shadows waving dancers
swaying away their troubles and warming their
throats with deep-brown bourbon that soothes
drawn muscles and looses blustery talk.

“Down home blues, down home blues,” ZZ Hill calls,
and the calm lullaby of the slate blue house
with rolling green grass, private-schooled children,
wife sweeping the home clean, and dinner warming in the
stainless steel double oven, retreats into the chorus.
Like a lover, the song invites, beckons, coaxes him
to join the celebration. And, weak to the lure
of night's freedom, he joins the dance once more.

© Cheri Paris Edwards 2007