Manhole

Invisible alternatives
alter egos
arranged like a photo album
in the windows facing
the closed unblinking stores
in the last
scattered rushes
of a mopey evening.
Companion and I, a cohort,
joined with the two hundred
waiting at the Mass Ave station-
wearing cold sooty scarves,
clayey boots with sandy cordons,
nibbling meat pies
standing 'round
in a ring across the sidewalk,
links in a chain of warmth.
Through the rising steam
a hobo and a bum
sip fifths to stoke their furnaces-
simplicity rewards hunger
only after the buffet is closed.
They hear
confluences of sound
in this crossroads of guitar heroes
and limber limbed
cello carrying composers,
fruity blends,
of concert ready
performances and practices.
In the red studio
a black amp bellows
lyrics like maudlin
and come to me,
like the words you use
when you say
farewell,
while I say hello.
Soon,
our phrases will all
be gone, taken
by the street sweepers.


Copyright 2008 Celosongs Ltd.