"Summerdreams" a poem by Charles Pouncy

I read in Walter Mosley's book on becoming a writer, that potential writers to be should take a poetry class to help with their writing rhythm. I haven't taken a class as of yet, but I found this poem while reading,"Freedom in this Village" Twenty-five years of Black Gay Men's Writing edited by E. Lynn Harris and it goes like this:

One of those D.C. nights in the summertime.
Either damp or soggy
at 2:00 a.m.
but always hot
mist cloaks the street lights
no animals on the street
because it's too hot outside
but the men are out.

The air is limp
a membrane of dust, moisture and pollen
incubating anger and violence
witness, the sirens through the night
communicating lust and passion and immediacy
as i walk into Malcolm X Park
and smell the heat
strong like ripe fruit brewing in a trashcan
do you risk a taste?
still the smell compels
drawing you closer and deeper
into the rhythm of the heat
the shadows and instinctive movements.

I walk up the stairs bounding the downward watercourse
my eyes lingering on the forms
positioned along the path
I touch my face
fingers slowly tracing the sweat on my brow
my eyes
searching their black wet faces
for their eyes
(it shows in the eyes)
and I'm hot and keep walking.

Ahead someone walks towards me
an outline
an image with long black limbs
stuffed into tight white shorts
and a shirt open to the waist
set against the thick darkness of the night
but the darkness recedes before him
there is not doubt that I am staring
our eyes touch
a spark flies between us
leaving the smell of lust
lingering in the moist air
I inhale
and it settles in the pit of my stomach.

He stops before me
too close to ask for the time
or a light
he stops
just one hot, damp breath away
sweat drips down the side of his nose
and disappears in the corner
of his mouth
he embraces his lips with his tongue
there are words
hard and provocative and we know the deal.

We turn and climb the stairs
leading to the park's upper level
we stop on the landing
there are words
a joint is produced
we smoke
inhaling each other's breath
he leans back into the shadows of a corner

I lean forward following
he is thin and firm but pliant
he welcomes my arms
and I am lost in his ahs and his sweat
our torsos disengage
but we remain locked below the waist
grinding, groping
I put my hand inside his shirt
the hairs on his chest
sizzle
another spark flies
and I feel his dick pressing into my stomach
I think about assault with a blunt weapon
he widens his stance
he smiles
it's time to go home
I wake up.


This poem brought back strong memories of living in Washington D.C. during the height of it's Black Gay Decadence---late 1980's-mid 1990's. It was a time of freedom of sexual expression and wanting, longing and going to the parks late at night and finding release from the summer heat.