Marimba music is rarely written down
played by ebony men
in gauloise smoke-soaked bars
off neon splashed streets
shimmering with tropical sound.

She has a photo, a portrait of a player
long elegant fingers curl
round the shaft of his beater
his white eyes anticipate
long nights of improvisation
his white teeth taste
her excitement in his smile
his instrument prominent,
polished, hard, intrusive.

He was the avant-garde
to her flimsy respectability
the constant adventure
to her syncretic joy
conflicted between a steady beat and syncopated rhythm
she could still feel the smack of his beater
on his instrument
on her heart.