Thursday, May 2, 2019

hot rain

It's a very rainy day,
and I walk down West 107 toward the subway.

I flick up my umbrella as I leave the church.

I hear jazz.

Where is it coming from?

It's coming from a car—a man is blasting music so full of blue notes the air around his car is indigo.

In the car, he's playing his trumpet along with the music.

I imagine his wailing is unwelcome in the apartment.

So he finds the island of private quiet available in Manhattan—his car, a public kind of privacy.

And he plays tear-streaked music in the rain.

Manhattan is full of poetry, and all of it is sad.

But beautiful.

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