572186 Poems Read Home Login	Poet 11586

Madison, Wisconsin 1992

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All the rain that fell during the day
stayed close to the
asphalt of State Street.
It collected in puddles and that
night our footfalls through the water
sounded like bop on a
big arch top guitar.
"It's like a river," you said. "Not the water on the street
but the people."
"Rivers and people both eddy and collect," I said. "There
are somethings in both that are more desirable to catch then
others. People and rivers slow and turn and speed beyond
control for reasons hidden beneath the surface."
We drank that night in a place small enough to keep us
dry and close to the street.
I don't recall the music. Irish, I think.
A music of ships and sweat and swearing arms.
Whiskey breathing men throwing their nets into the river,
scraping the curb with the tackle and hauling it in empty.
I awoke the next morning in the back seat of my car.
The rain on the roof sounded like the pop and brush of a silver
snare.
Rivers awake slowly on calm rainy dawns with few signs of
its immense life.
A broken branch floating downstream amidst the beer cans.
The mirror top of the river broken
only by the slaps of fat carp.
As we moved into the street's current
you touched me on the arm and pointed to an old
sailor walking to starboard looking nowhere and talking to
his shoes.
"Arthur," you said. "He's walked State Street for years."
Arthur had toiled like a man with a rock before giving up
and drifting up and down the street.
We only watched him
for a few moments before we moved on.
I remember to this day his clumsy footfalls
and grumbling mumble sounding like
slap on a scratched top, stand-up bass.
We were pointlessly drifting
when the clouds burnt off and
the afternoon heat sent like into the deep shadows cool
along the edges of the buildings.
We drank a parting beer
and I drove you to the bus station. Even now how I
feel tastes like lemon and sounds like the moan and
wail of a brass blues sax.

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Poet 11586

Madison, Wisconsin 1992