a streetwind blows harder,
an unkempt avenue's fury
to stress the flat caps
of free radicals.
under the sign at joey ramone boulevard,
crater-arm hookers stare hard
at us free radicals, and the night
is weak with promise, so
we seek subway sanctuary,
a ratholed refuge
where a kora player from mali
makes a cigarette-crumb stage
the strings of timbuktu enchantment.
maybe hip hop, blues, and jazz were all born
on the mud-dressed banks
of the congo river?
his kora makes even vacant yuppies quiver,
the subway platform alive
with a music
that would not be felt
on joey ramone boulevard.
i ponder tossing loose change in the hat
resting on the cigarette-crumb stage,
since tipping mysterious music
seems to be all the rage.
instead i find a couple of bills,
borrowed from other free radicals,
because his family in bamako
just might want to eat better
tomorrow.
