My Tennessee Williams baby doll on a hot cast iron fire escape, hot as glass as a moldable solid; leaning over the rail, all in white because love is borne of sweat and fire escapes and cast iron boundaries: a white-gloved touch; always a thin veil of satin between us (holy palmers). But I have the Cajun fire in my belly and saints have lips, parted, moistened to accept life's garlic and gumbo. STELLA beneath the surface STELLA; Ella, the patron saint of hot night and day night and day Mack the Knife, my delirious hindbrain, hiding out in fevered dreams: sating himself on her while she sleeps while I sleep. Yeah, St. Ella, you dig? And the A-Train is my favorite because the A-Train is my train; Between 59 and 125 in August the tunneled heat brings life back to Harlem; and Ella's so hot the heat sits back and listens with the rest, the Apollo; she's making the Sun God sweat. Watching a lady sweat wasn't ever so hot. Oh, lady be good, Watching a lady sweat wasn't ever so hot.