image Poetry of Kent Foreman

Westside Saditty Night
By Kent Foreman


So, Saturday night grows from the East
As quietly as the greedy ringworm feasts
upon shorn shorties’ heads.
It spreads
             like urine stains upon the beds
                                                                      of bawling babies.
The great blue heights
Wide shoulders of young Saturday nights  stridin’ across the city.
Hey! Satditty night
             sneaks into the kitchettes
Like smoke ghost from thin cigarettes
In wet and winless places
Yet races
            Beyond the spaces
                                    In the tenement fence
Wence, stickball games is dyin’ with the light.
Saditty night.
When spooks don firesale or boosted suits our girlfriends swear we cute in.
And sin, great Gordon’s gin,
Tt’s Saditty.
Get down with the nitty gritty.
So. . . Bellowed blues stroll
Tolling down those segregated avenues
Command and chose
To tap.

Meanwhile, the predators prepare
While Miss Ann’s maids with tender care
Run smoky combs through kinky hair
Await the ringing of a thousand phones. 
Some, drench themselves in cheap cologne or Fabergee
It’s Saturday.

So, cab drivers fill their tanks
Patrolman form in fimer ranks
In front of police stations.
While bartenders smile upon spenders
Why, even musicians may decline
Say, man, I got to hit at nine on Saditty night.
Cause this here’s business
and you do that right.

Forget the high school set, nay
Grey, blue-lighted living rooms
Dark vases in the darkness loom
Bloom like dark corsages,   
Now a wild-grown bunch
They spike the punch and their fingers pop
They boogaloo or they ditty-bop and grind
On the slow numbers.

Always, a furtive pint of wine
A step on somebody else’s shine
A fight!
            It’s Saditty night!
                                       And that means violence.

So, ER interns on their tours
Stitch. . . . Stitch. . . Stitch. . .like seamstresses. 
Endure the mumbled curses for the bitch
That slashed their specimen.
They plant their sutures
And sometimes write scarlet futures
Slip through their fingers.
Drip, form puddles on the floor
They say no more
Then “ummmmm, this one is dead.”
“Nurse, have some one change this bed.”
“Say Dr. Shiller,”
“This Saturday night shift is a killer”

Yeah, cause there are smokers
Yeah, crap games
Sure poker.
And that ain’t all.
Hell, you’re supposed to have a ball on Saturday night.
Sleep or repent on Sunday

Cause Monday’s blues surely arrive
This is the only night you got to be alive
To be somebody
                                       A little.
You see, the six-day economic meek
Can only live one night a week.

That’s right.
Saditty Night.