>Moving

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It’s me
In the same jeans
Walking the same street
Dragging my feet
Humming a tune
Making eyes at the moon
Soon
I’ll walk a different street
One that smells less like Ramen and mussel shells
And more like coffee
Finely ground
Pressed- French
Upper-class stench, comparatively
But I’ll miss
The hip-hop in the street
Dancing to the beat slowly in circles in my minuscule kitchen
The hum of a drum from the neighbor boy’s band
Hand in hand walking, talking with dogs on leashes made of electrical tape
The Great Escape
Made by Buster daily as he chases the men in black suits walking home from the train
In the rain when the walls cry because they cannot hold the weight of water
Coming at it from both sides
Wailing
A wife
A daughter
In torrents
In streams
In dreams laced with broken fingers, I linger
In summer beneath Gertie’s window
Where gospel music stirs the pot of curried goat
In winter where the burning sage will cling to coats
And the patio that’s always good for a smoke-
A joke between friends and bagels on Saturday mornings
The drop-by’s without warning
When everyone is hungry and shows up just in time for dinner.
The five minute walk to
Italy
Ethiopia
India
Thailand
China
Mexico
Cuba
France
Banking on the chance that perhaps you need no reservation on a Tuesday
Bringing bottles of cheap red wine
Foot tapping, keeping time with the older gentleman on the clarinet
The Girl From Ipanema
On the Street Where You Live
What I would give to play a song or two on a Tuesday night with nothing but a tip jar
And a light
On the night stand
Shining clearly on the music I hadn’t needed to read for decades
Before arcades
And parades
And other sorts of escapades took precedence
Over the decadence
The reverence
The plain, good sense of rhythm and meter
It’s me
In the same jeans
Walking the same street
Dragging my feet
Humming a tune
Making eyes at the moon
Soon
I’ll walk
a different
street.

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