Second Street and Scene; Movement 1
by Adam Gaucher
Monday, December 09, 2002
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The pigeons tired sit along side
the downtown broadway hobo. He plays
a most beautiful horn; seems centuries have
danced past his clamshell eyes.
Near the corner, the 2nd street and
scene, that's his venue, on the bench
with invisible jazz quartet. There are few
who can trace about the outline of
his trumpet, and then there are the
very few who sense his grand ensembles
though and out his weathered expressions.
He blows nightly towards the sunset hours;
lights glowing warm past midnight and all.
Crowd-what-crowd gathers most passing
ashamed; drop a crumb for the pigeons, drop
a dime for the artwork of a dead man's
The very few can hear him speak, with
every note flying a flick of the finger tip.
His rhythm deluges atmosphere, prolonging
triumph around his little spot on Earth.
The spectacle matures to a god given talent and
grace; every night for another crowd of the
very few; another crowd of passing hats;
another jam worthy of his last living breath.
With his collapsing brass he too must
disappear with the breeze. His band leaves,
and the dimes receive no invitation; such
objects are for those who wish to be poor.
See he can eat of the magic from the street.
It's a dinner served through a richest love,
given back to those who stop when willing