The Band On The Street Corner

Ode to Kerouac

The jazz men, grinding away at the earthy

poor corner, flowed, spewing music through

all the open windows and doors.

Their bebop street beat,

with energetic riffing, a swirling melody

that lingered in the ears, the air, the big open

mystery sky. The thump of a bass drum

against sensitive temples. And the trumpet player,

cheeks blown out like bursting balloon party favors,

going cross-eyed, focused on his golden instrument.

Furious, curious; calling to St. Peter:

“Open up the gates, cat! We’re here

and swingin’ all night.”

And the little tambourine boy dancing in his

hanging clothes, too big for his figure.

Dancing and jigging, the smile on his face

large and shining, with the rattle of loose

bells

echoing.

A crowd had gathered,

a woman

in front

shaking and gyrating, swinging her arms

and hips,

locking and releasing

her knees.

Soon they were done and the sweat lingered,

the woman spilled some change

into a hat placed at the musician’s feet.

The crowd separated

and shuffled away.

And the sidewalk was left empty.