Concordance of a Hot May Evening
Along Fell Street.
I want there to be music in cars gritty
with rain and pollen scraping along Fell Street;
in leaves green assembling into an absurd
collage on the pavement gray as a yawn;
anything besides the relentless sound
of the moon dividing itself over and over,
this cacophony of buildings caked and brittle
flaking under neon signs singing silent blues.
I want you to be here, to point out
the bay's slow cadence, the way the water
keeps time against the dock while beneath
the surface, crayfish spin through the blackness
like musical notes across a page. "Imagine," you
would whisper, "the stars not twinkling, but applauding.
And I want to hear the snap-snap-snap
of your cigarette burning as you take
the smoke deep in your lungs and exhale a perfect ring,
convincing everyone that you are not just
blowing smoke, you are adjusting your halo.
If you've any comments on this poem, Jamie
Wasserman would be pleased to hear