Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #6                         Page 8
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THE CONGA LINE

My friend of years ago
played the conga drums
and had everyone dancing
together smartly from one end
of the street to the other,
the pathways garnished
with tall palm trees, leaves
vivid green, swaying
with the people on even
the hottest of days—houses
multicolored and rhythmed
to every slash and shake
the body makes in abandon.
Marlins leapt from the sea,
sharks skimmed the surface
to better hear the commotion,
parrots congregated on the piers
and my friend pounded away
until the early light of night,
strutting home to the arrival
of the grateful, macho moon.


  Tim Suermondt