An a Capella group
steps over boots and
around heavy coats
to sing doo wop
on the C train, at 34th Street.
The doors open at 42nd Street,
There are beats of African drums
Coming from the platform,
Which get quieter as the door closes.
A man reading Bible verses
Has gotten on
there.
The passengers
keep their heads down
do not speak,
Nor look at him.
At 59th, I get off.
Peaceful sounds of
Native American flute
Fill the Time Warner Center
I hear it on the escalator
Down to Whole Foods.
It fades away to
Folk pop mix
In the market,
Bob Dylan’s
nasal raspy twang
In the background as
As I eat oatmeal
And drink organic coffee
There is less sidewalk
In this season,
From 59th
to 74th,
I walk through
Pop-up forests of
Christmas Trees
Piney scent
Mixes with aromas of roasted nuts,
And Freshly fried Falafel,
A siren cuts through
The after rush hour
Traffic on icy Broadway morning.
The little trees
Draw me in.
No more than three feet high,
These ones that fit in tiny
Spaces in
Manhattan places
Mini forests sit among the Giants
“Hello, little ones”, I think.
“I have had been intimate
With a few of your cousins,”
Back when I lived on E. 85th Street.
I brought them up to my 6th floor studio
Barely reaching window,
Facing south.
Flashing mini-
lights, stars
And angels sat on gentle tiny branches
I do not linger,
In those street forests.
Only memories
Linger
I have come to dance,
And so I do
Soft gentle
indie
Music,
Piano
And lilting, voice,
for jazz class.
There is sadness in the voice.
Soft slippers and bare feet
Make brushing sounds on
Polished surfaces
But downstairs,
the room filled
with tappers
Stomp, slap, and flap
In unison
Metal on wood,
Percussive,
Drumming with
our feet
Deep bass
guitar
Plays jazz solo,
Our rhythms syncopate
With it
And together we become
the
Music
Then, two flights down
with clomping boots on
ancient steps
Cross the street and
back to screeching
Subway.
A man with covered standing bass
waits,
then
gets off at 66th,
Lincoln Center.
I imagine his deep rich sound
As he plays in an orchestra there
or maybe a jazz band.
While I wait at 59th Street
For the C
I hear, I think, tapping.
Could it be?
Yes, a man
Has set up planks of wood
Where he does cramp roll turns
And maxi fours
With gusto.
At Penn Station,
34th Street
There is
soulful blues
And haunting electric guitar
A few notes of each,
Then out to the street,
Where heading west,
The city noises cars, and horns
And underlying din
Begin to wane
By 10th Ave
There is peace
Peaceful city
How strange
There is stillness
Out here in the western edge
Between 11th
and 12th,
Almost to the river
Where there is lots of sky
Silence,
While I wait for the bus
To take me home.
No comments:
Post a Comment