With fluent mind and fluid tongue,
hair starched straight with curls undone,
lascivious shirts and wanton sweat divide and rule.
The straights are cut by malt and rye,
in tangled dance of hook and eye,
considerate smiles are sewn-on with their charm.
Youth convinced by occult folk,
swimming in their trails of smoke.
Ginsberg sits howling, dog-eared and coffee-ringed.
Piercing the confederacy of the crowd
a lone bird sings aloud
the lament of longing, winters flown in native heat
And the smuggled scented matchstick mass,
that pour over a bud of grass,
deaf to the sound of Parker’s heroin blues
Where western trim is ruffled smooth
by blue tones and tribal grooves:
untied kinks that dance on cloth - unwritten rules and Windsor knot.
Still young and in a Stanhope suite,
to the sound of a still, sombre beat,
the sax was silenced- the bird had flown.
Yet calling from the subway walls
to the echoed sounds of Massey Hall,
the yard-bird’s notes tell of the changing wind.
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