Old Market In Autumn

I have rips in my jeans like
the street has pot-holes and I
can’t stand up straight or
stand to think about what I’ll do
tomorrow. The streets, at least,
will get cobbled again. My jeans
are in store for something less.

Old brick road’s got sinkholes, too
and every kid with a store-bought cue
is going to try their luck at the ‘Stream,
but the old Filipino man that runs the
hall can’t be beat because he doesn’t drink,
or smoke, or do anything but play pool,
polish the trim of his tables,
brush the felt until it looks cool
and green as living leaves.

I yell that at the kids as they cross the street
dipping and swaying like sailors on
the wavy bricks. “You can’t beat the
Mad Filipino, you dumb fucks!”

My favorite street musician laughs
while I cop a lean against a post.
He can never remember Naima, but I still ask him
to play it every time I see him. He shakes his
head and asks if I’ll hum a few bars, but I
am painfully shy about making music in
any way and always say, “Fuck it, play My Funny
Valentine, instead.”

Another performer walks up and we share the post,
leaning and listening and when the playing is over,
Jazzman number two says to jazzman number one,
“Count Basie called and told me to fuck you up,
homie.” I laugh a little as I drop a five-spot in the
empty sax case and leave them to talk about things
I’ll never understand without brass in my hands.

Spaghetti Works is bright tonight, doing booming
business out of an old train car that sits on rails
unused since before the great war. That’s what grandpa
always said, “Ain’t seen streetcars or trains downtown since
afore the big one.” I have no way of knowing if this is true.

Across the street is a sharper place, bucking for Soho chic,
but sliding in closer to 'good Midwestern try’ than
east-coast fashion. I don’t hold it against them, anymore.

Christmas lights in trees that have shaken off their bullshit
kick on as the sun settles down and the night takes over
and from a distance these three streets look soft and warm.
slogans painted on brick walls advertise products and companies
that no longer exist, and fuck if the Butternut building didn’t
burn down.

I used to lay in the back of a 280ZX two by two that had
the back seats folded down in a flat space for me to sleep
in, and on my back, with my head on the console, I could look
up out of the windshield as we drove around and it felt like
flying every time because it erased the ground from my perspective.

All the buildings and streetlights seemed to float by, as impossibly tall as Gods.
Then someone would pop the hatchback, say “Dude, we’re here.”
and I would realize I was just staring.