Dancing in the Streets

You watch,
in the midst,
not quite part,
not quite separated
from the noise of the street,
the lights and sounds,
the young buck in his black hoodie
playing the saxophone in a low wail,
the notes twisting in the wind;
the tiny Italian woman
all grey hair, heels and cleavage
her hands waving in the air as she walks,
talking, it appears, to no one,
but joyful in the conversation;
A hundred suits in lockstep,
not a smile among them,
full of purpose and lacking life;
three children, maybe ten,
in beanies and bright gloves
playing hide and seek in the crowd,
too bright, too gleeful for the early hour.

Steam rises from the vents in the sidewalk.
A distant jackhammer plays percussion.
Everything, it appears, is for sale,
is for sale: Dresses, Cameras, Cigars, Women,
Art, knock off bags and real drugs,
dignity and madness,
truth, lies and things that light up and whirl.

Ahead of you, a priest walks,
his head down, eyes half closed,
as if it is all too much for his robe-clad soul
to take in.
Ahead of you, a young woman in ballet shoes
dances through the morning crowd,
her head full of music you can see
in her every move.

A panhandler stops you on the corner,
teeth missing and cheeks veiny and red.
a few coins sir? For coffee?
You both know he lies
But you offer him not money,
but coffee and conversation
and sitting at the table he tells his story.

It does not matter if it is true,
it is connection,
a place to stop rushing
and listen to someone’s soul
and remind yourself
that you are human.

About this poem

I began this morning listening to David Bowie and Mick Jagger singing “Dancing in the Streets”. Funny the stuff that will spawn a poem

Tom