Around midnight I met Shelley
in the jungle atmosphere of the seedy
oceanfront cabaret Trade Winds.
We were seated at the oval bar, and
a lazy quintet’s rendition of Limehouse Blues
was competing with overhead fans.
One wall was glass overlooking the boardwalk
and moonlight dancing on the surf, the
other walls were lined with bamboo cages
of screeching monkeys. The bartender
wore a pith helmet and eye patch.

I ordered drinks, his an Ocean Reef
blending two varieties of rum
with peach schnapps and blue curacao
in orange juice, mine a Purple
Nurple of tequila, curacao, and sloe gin.

Young Shelley's fair hair curled
over his brow and down the back of his neck.
This troubled man, an English gentleman
and revolutionary, flaunted tradition,
a guardian of equality, justice, freedom.
He had a need to reform the world: