I think I'll write again tonight. First draft.
Copley, by drum
The stick flies upward, twirling
against a sky that's a stained glass ocean waiting
to be broken, and comes down with a
beat of the Square is a Nandi epiphany
(everyone's Kenyan where marathons end).
Tortoise and hare wait in endless caesura be-
tween faith and science, beneath mirrored walls. And the
people who cross there see only the sidewalk as
vital news calls their attention away, and their
cell phones have grown from their fingers like tumors but
even so focused they still feel the beat and high
heels clack a rhythm on bricks red as Georgia and
hard granite flagstones that amplify every step,
echoing cadence in canyons of glass, and the
veiled ladies watch them with tarnished brass apathy.
Skateboarders rocket toward certain destruction, but
at the last minute glide down on a prayer past the
indigent man with his sign made cardboard that
promises he just wants money for food. But he's
not begging now; he's just digging the day, and says,
"Sister, why can't it be like this all year?" and she
waves to him cheerfully, grins at the sun, and goes
on with her day, and another blows by with the
phone on her ear and her eyes wide and focus-blind.
"What do you mean?" she demands with a glare at some
mythic opponent, and crosses the street toward the
tunnel below. And the drummer can see her now,
passing his nest, as she crosses her finish line
headed for home, so he gives her a flourish of
passes on angrily; can't win them all. And the
poet drops money and then disappears.