beat rhymed stanzas belted forward,
a vocal punch to tepid air,
read quickly, staggered-like, from a dog eared notebook,
an uneasy shuffle of the feet,
a Bic pen behind the ear,
read to an audience,
a quiet crowd of traffic lights,
sewer grates, oily puddles,
and an old drunk's midnight chuckle,
the poet stops, bends,
edits with a leaky pen,
a whistle wetted by a tear off a flask of 5 dollar whiskey,
stands up, begins again,
this time,
with a brand new line.
3 comments:
French keeps a notebook like this one; as do I. Equally stained with tears and coffee rings.
OO
Good one. Mona Lisa mural looks over a curved street and a poem that goes straight to the heart.
Another nice post, Dox.
Magical. I actually just walked past Dancing Days in Kensington last week. What a mind-cluck. Great writing Adnanther.
matty
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