Ipanema

 

A whisper in my ear says to watch 

her toes, tracing their tips in the sand

as she sambas across the beach. 
But that humid, sultry voice floating 
to me from the speaker walks right on by.

Suddenly I'm twelve again: it's the summer

she first sang to me. Someone plucks

a guitar while the Getz record spins its magic,

eclipsing the bright midday.  

I can feel her eyes through the pale darkness,

her soft voice falling from note to note.

She sings those curvy, swaying words

just to me, and my ears crave their sound,

bathed in the music of Portuguese.

Stan, I love your breathy horn play

but Astrud was the gift you gave to me.
Anywhere can be Rio if I just stop

and listen to her lips moving,

like toes splashing water walking

down the beach at Ipanema.