Sidewalk Party

I played music in the street one day and this guy came up wearing messy clothes with scraggly hair and beard. He listened and clapped along to one of my songs. We started talking. He asked what songs I know. He said do I know any Bob Dylan, so I played Like a Rolling Stone. He sang every single line to that song and when it came time for the harmonica, he cupped his hands up to his mouth and made this loud "Whah whah whah" sound. A group of other people, bums or homeless, beggars, all joined me and we played songs together. Guy at the pretzel cart gave me a free one. It tasted like turpentine. On the streets of NYC, outside of Port Authority, about 4 strangers and myself had a sidewalk party, jamming around and talking. Tony said that if every hour I put 2 dollars of what I earned away, so that I can't use it, by the end of the day I'll have a growing savings account for anything I want to spend it on. Good tip from a beggar.

Sketch

Sketch me from the front to see
what I can't behind me. My figure
silhouetted by the morning cloudy sky
in the window that faces a long blue
Chevy Astro van with 6 minutes left on
the meter. The meter is wet. Droplets
bead off onto the saturated pavement
that splatters with tiny pin-prick rain
drips as early strollers, hiding inside
of umbrellas, splash through.

Sketch me from the back to see the
three young baristas make orders and pass
a combination of cafe drinks to the old woman
on my right, who reaches for a cardboard
4-cup holder. See from behind me the steam
rising over my shoulders; and hear the early
inconsequential conversations; and
imagine the racket of plastic utensil wrappers
opening and clatter of espresso machine parts
being rinsed by the full-power faucet.

From a Wet Porch Step

In the amber street light
under the rain,
the clouded night;
red stop sign, then green;
twiddle in the rain drain;
twirping car alarm from thunder,
then a flash;
a rain drop beside you.
The roof is giving way.

Trickle drip down the cheek,
over the bone to your chin.
How many times
will this bird chirp again?

Flutter of thunder
in the clouds -
not as loud as
the rain splats
in the mud;
on the shoe;
through the laces.
It's late, morning.
A car drives by
and stops at the red light.

Eyelids fall as hard as the rain.
A car drives by again.
What must be started at this hour?

This Sunday morning,
church pews will hold fewer families,
but the priest will be there.