Thursday, July 27, 2006

#95: July 27, 2006

He kissed a cigarette and tapped the ash
into the sound hole of his old guitar.
The streetlight down the block shone like a star,
but we were dark. I threw a little cash
into his case, and at the tinkling sound
the old man blew a cloud of ghostlike smoke
that swallowed our heads. I began to choke,
but my companion just looked at the ground,
stomped slow, then faster, like a wind-up toy
reversed, speeding the tempo with his feet
until he seemed to shake that lonely street
and filled my mind with strange, expectant joy--

He played, and that old flat-top laughed and cried
and smoked like it was burning deep inside.

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