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Angel was feelin' the mood in Dream Cafe
tonight. She was a frequent visitor of the warm, in-
viting environment, the bold colors on the walls, the
mellow furniture and tables, the lighting how it
seemed to in many ways be a spotlight that sparked
intriguing conversation where one eye catches an-
other and sparks fly. She tapped her fingers against
the table while sipping her iced vanilla latte and en- brothas get up on stage and speak such sweet candy,
joying the young poet pouring out his soul (or was
he just revealing it?). His rhymes had a beat that
intrigued her, while the conversations around her
faded into the background, his voice seemed to
dominate the atmosphere.
She gazed across the table to Shante, who
was no longer absorbed by her caramel macchiato
and its rich taste as the cream melted in her mouth,
but more with the words of this young poet who's
words saturated the air with a gentle melody. He
had dark brown eyes with an indication of innocence
and caramel skin, with tamed twist that hinted the
nature of his roots. His full lips were a window of
constant motion; Angel had the notion that there was
a story behind that particular feature. She smiled as young brothas can talk a good game. The kind that
her mind wandered off, thinking what it might be
like to kiss those luscious lips, but then again, keep
those lips open and that mouth moving to his infa-
mous beat so that she could further be amazed by his drink through her straw, almost as if she was sucking
words of wisdom.
His poem was about African American
52 Contrast 2004
women and how they were his queens, possessing
the longevity of the Nile, the ability to go the extra
mile; how he cherished the variety of skin tones and
high cheek bones, curves and hips, and of coarse our
thick lips. How he treated women with respect of
the highest honor, yet Angel pondered if his words
were only face value. Many young, educated
rich milk chocolate, like M&Ms that "melt in your
mouth, not in your hands." His words melted her
heart but she knew better than to let that get the best
of her.
Shante broke her fixation with a comment,
swiftly bringing her back down from whatever cloud
she was floating on.
"He sounds nice but does he really mean it?"
She said.
"Let the brotha speak," Angel responded,
slightly annoyed that she had fallen off her intellec-
tual high for the evening.
"Yeah, you can get lost in his words, but that
means nothing. You know from experience, these
sweep you off your feet, the kind you take home for
your parents and family to meet. What is it that
makes him different?" She sipped the last bit of her
the life out of it; all of a sudden this poet's words
needed immediate medical attention.