Streets feed on the language of
cool and jive.
Tongues of curtains slip
from sides of windows
as if pointing with their
curves with creases
to music
like steam rising
in waves over blacktop
rumbling energy
the sound moves
pressing against doors
and into alleys
as night encourages
the people to open
packages wrapped
with jazz
banging drums
and lifting bass
well past midnight
without rest until dawn
when streets claim
the language to start
again.
