the drummer

a man said to me

that if we walked

down the same street

he'd see the golden light,

and i would see the woman

huddled against a wall

with a ragged purse clutched close

and a kitten tethered to a string.

and the glow reflected

from the unwashed windows

that lent a tinge of rose

to her hollow cheek.

the sycamores

were leafing april bright,

dappling the crack dealers

with leopard shadow spots.

on folding chairs in the doorway

of the combo hotdog-tattoo shop,

two enormous men sat face to face,
one blotting a red demon on his foot.

and there was a guy on the corner

set up with empty water bottles,

plastic buckets upside down,

metal pots and pans.

and he was playing them

with drumsticks. he got up

from his milk crate seat

and played on the light poles

and the bricks and the sidewalk.