02.24
on the platform
waiting for the number 7 train
there’s a Jazzman
a real Jazzman
with road dust hair
and million mile eyes
digging the roots of cool for
cap-toed, flannel suited worker-bees
and those ladies who lunch
from Westchester and Rye
pushing thousand dollar Aprica strollers
their pretty Suburban feet
clickety-clacking to the beat
on the piss-stained subway floor.
silver bullets of improvisation
tear through the dirty skin
of the underground like shrapnel
explode against graffiti walls
and rain down on the deaf ears
of apoplectic suburban drones
only the rats and I
are a bloody
beautiful
mess
pinstriped parades of MBA’s
and dot.com commandos
with pocket change to spare
spin blindly by his half-full jar of “tips appreciated”
and all the while
the Jazzman
blows hard notes
in a loud room
‘Trane and Prez and Parker riffs
electric
third-rail
Grand Central blues.
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