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Cast of Characters

Mid-January, Rain - January 13, 2012
Almost Midwinter - December 14, 2011
Saturday, Noonish, Sunny - November 05, 2011
October, White - October 31, 2011
October, 2011 - October 04, 2011


December 08, 2003

11:16 p.m.

Hello, lovely new reader.

Here's a poem from a few years back, before I began my short-lived career busking in Harvard Square. This was a magical night... Enjoy.

The Square

I arrived early
and had the joint cased, shop by shop,
before Dar arrived. Also
the spec on every player�s amp
and an opinion of their music
to go with it.
A little fear came up as I wondered
If I play here,
will people stand still long enough
to listen?

Can I touch someone�s heart
even out on the street?
This worried me.
I soothed the child in me and said
that no one would bite, and sat awhile
listening to the African dude on his
kora.
His drummer warmed up to the jam
and was right in the pocket
except for about twenty measures
where he fell a little behind.


The punks came out.
One by one and two by two they gathered
until a flock of studded, black jeaned
rainbow haired and pudgy
punk puppets
had gathered behind the subway entrance
to smoke, hug one another
sit in skirts, knee-wide
and prove to the world that they don�t have to
look pretty to be there.
When the skinny boy�s smokes
dropped out of his pocket, I had the urge
to go and pick them up, thinking
He�ll want those later
but I realized how odd that would appear
-- and how middle-aged --
I would have looked silly.
I who have felt so wrongly dressed in my life
was surprised to see my kinship with them
standing on the outbound platform
while the years rushed in.


When Dar showed up we laughed at everything
walked and looked and poked fun
practiced our ventriloquist voices
I took him to the flower shop
and we gawked
at the thousand orchids.
Out of its cool dampness
we emerged flowerless
and headed to Bertucci�s where the food�s always good.
Dar faced the window and pointed suddenly over the Bruschetta,
Do you see the angel?
I turned but saw only humans.

Up and down the street again; we listened to a three-chord band
and, after the bookstore, a chick singer
with a great voice
a bad amp
and too many ballads.
Behind us and across the street
the angel was standing on a crate.

He was in whiteface
white robe
white shoes
white gloves
gold headband over strawberry hair
and feathered wings,
tall and thin and
very still.

In front of him was a silver urn
with feathers rising round the edge
and a sign.
I moved around to read it:

�Donations�

Every minute or so, someone would step up
and clink a coin into the urn
and the angel would turn
to him as he walked away
with a benevolent gesture he didn�t see

but everyone else did.

I noticed he was standing in front of the big
round kiosk
that housed the elevator to the subway
and a huge picture of Charlie Chaplin.
Every few seconds someone would come bustling round it
expecting to cross Harvard Square in peace
when suddenly to their immediate right
was this big white
(What is that?!)
They�d falter suddenly and do a double take
Charlie would have been proud of.
We stood amused for some time
and I fell in love with the angel
because he never spoke out loud
and his trick was so simple.
Then I had a great idea.

I told it to Dar and we went back to the flower shop
with the thousand orchids --
and, after much searching, found one
white
iris.
We went back to the square where he was
motionless
and I soothed the child in me and said
that he wouldn�t bite
and went up and tucked a dollar bill into the urn.
I looked up then into his face and he was
moving
and looking at me and I said, good job, and
placed the white iris into the urn with the the money
and turned to go as everyone made a breathing noise
and Dar said, Look, look at him!
I looked at the white angel from out of my red face
and his hands were on his heart now
looking at me
and standing very
very
still.


from 6/11/00 (protected by copyright)


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