This one's for you, Django,
The way you played that guitar,
Fingers fancy-prancing
Fleetly up and down the fretboard,
Even after you had disappeared
For days on end,
Bolting madly-eyed off to your gypsy woman,
— Or so some said, nobody really knew —
Playing as nimbley-fast and agile
When you came back
As if there weren't a second's gap
Between the time you left/returned.
God, the way her black eyes sparkled
In the nighttime firelight when she danced,
The way her bare feet stamped and leaped in dust,
The way she spun like a whirlwind
And fanned her billowing skirts
Above her knees and thighs
And smiled at you,
Scarlet lips alluring, teeth flashing,
Cheeks hot and rose-red flushed. . .
Then you reappeared with new laughter
In your dancing fingers,
New joys in your reckless heart,
New well-spring memories tossing fresh flames
Into that willy-wild six-string guitar of yours.
How did you do it, Django?
How did you burn so bright
And hardly ever practice?
Your gypsy blood?
That raven-haired beauty?
The way her
Orange campfire flames' capricious fingers
Bathed intoxicated stars in fire?
Here's to you, Django.
Every time you play those
Dash-daring incandescent melodies
I see the way she smiled and spun for you,
The way her spangled beads and
Jingling silver bracelets glittered
In the campfire light,
The way her swirling skirts flared
Out across the reeling gypsy moon
And thrilled you.