Act I
Saturday morning
finds me experimenting
with a muddy Starbucks cup
loaded with fifty-three cents
as a hint, as bait
traffic flows by
with blind and empty eyes;
they don’t see me
or even the spray of purple blossoms behind
my perch.
April air
is thick with hints of rain;
-my mind slides into a cascade
of yesterdays-
“I’ll remember April”
sung in the voice
of Mile Davis’
tube of brass
played again & again
for my grateful ears.
Will I remember April this year?
Directions to a nearby Starbucks
earn me two thin coins.
April finds me
as a speck of dust,
of urban grim,
of the grim blight
that soils this comely city.
Blossoms surround me
brazen in their
flamboyant pinks, yellows, violets;
music trickles from a flute
played softly in the distance;
does anyone hear?
No one here
hears the raging howling
voice of my thirst.
The minutes stretch
into forever
under the stone gray sky.
