Poetry

Dreary night in the “Gateway to the MidWest.”

Gray day all day, pouring down rain from Hurricane Helene.

Over a hundred people dead so far across six states.

There’s music in the city tonight—

floodlights heating small stages,

Doc Martens thumping across carpeted plywood,

fingers fumbling for cable jacks,

amplified introductions crop dusting

the conversating crowd between performances,

and house-band backup making magic as ephemorable as the

raindrops drumrolling on the roof

in the floodingest part of town.

Smoker silhouettes stand shoulder to shoulder

under balconies,

under leaking awnings, satisfying rain-defying cravings,

reminiscing about having had to wait in the downpour

for the first-come first-to-perform club/cafe to open its door.

There’s music in the city tonight

but I’m at home—

starved for friends,

starved for singing,

but comfy in my cozy robe,

with soft jazz softly breathing quiet echoes of a lost age

from the smart speaker.

Black cat watches my back from his bed,

slowly dozes

as Coltrane’s tenor groans something about

out-of-reach satisfaction,

as rain drops subside so the sidewalks outside turn to gleaming glass,

and a choir of crickets adds its voice to the shuffled songs.

Vince Guaraldi tickles piano keys from somewhere in time.

A friend tickles keyboard keys somewhere in the city.

I tickle computer keys from somewhere inside myself—

a warm ocean

rising into a cold and ugly wind.

September 30, 2024