It is a song
though notes are scattered and many.
A car horn beeps the intro to
the rhythmic boom-box heat.
Voices tune to the jazz licks of the streets,
blow solos, duets of conversation,
whole street vendor orchestras.
The sound of new shoes
taps down sidewalks,
so slick, you hear their shine.
Or rubber-soles drum
where dreams sweep glass,
pull weeds from cracks.
There’s brass in eager faces,
fuzz guitar strummed by
string sections sweet beneath the laughter,
down piano keys of light and dark.
At night, another music
sweeps out the frantic blare of day:
The hours, the people,
the alleys, the apartments,
the stores, the office buildings:
all tunes, all ripe for playing.
In dusky clubs,
musicians take the stage,
jam to what’s been and gone
until it happens next.