When you find another anthem,
you take it back over all the
bus routes, hallways and parks
that salt & that pepper your years,
each having previously held
warm verses and grooves of their own.
You walk back.
steps to the church
and the steeple.
The prayer of her knee highs
and the black
The people on the bus and
the ones that make up the crowd.
You’ve seen most of it before,
but never to Miles or Betty Davis.
Never to Muddy, King, or Wolf.
People as convoluted as they become, are
all at once redeemable, by a perfect soundtrack.
A Kaleidoscope, wringing out the stories
in their eyes and perks; shearing off
lines of nuance. Carving another edge.
The frenetic bird-mimicry
& melting of stuffy snow glazed people.
The dance of the chilled and iced.
The palace of warmth that
I hate a warm bus. I start to shed layers…
scribble lines at stops;
Holden Caulfield isn’t dead!
He’s alive and well and living in Canada!
A girls pink hair seems to be giving her more enjoyment as
her boyfriend shifts in his padded seat.
A symphony of bodies bobbing along.
As if perfectly,
by puppeteer of inertia,
to this seasons song,
a play were all along enacted
rarely ever changing, until we
reach our crescendo.
Go scouring for another score.
Something new to re-watch you dance to.