The music had change and stretch,

marching the sidewalks,

turning heels and heads,

twisting the jazz in into shadows

with snap and burning

where fingers speak a language of

black tar streets and perfume

rolls on the sweat of hands

born into the arms of people

stacked in apartments

that cook in summer

and buzz cold in winter

but none of it breaks

the hallway of faces

and low alley eyes staring

at back seat sleepers,

concrete yards, patched streets

and parking lot yards

where music is the

tissue connecting the

colors of skin in the city

that’s the capitol of

the world.





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